<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Dancing Barefoot by spacemonkey</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27281491">Dancing Barefoot</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey'>spacemonkey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>U2 (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:47:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>36,213</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27281491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a chance meeting with a male fan, Bono starts to reconsider his best friend, and the role he wishes Edge to play in his life. (Otherwise known as The Scientist: Now with Bono POV!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bono/Ali Hewson, Bono/The Edge (U2)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Sun and the Moon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Soooooooo hi, this is interesting! Welcome to my most recent madness, an idea that occurred to me a couple of weeks ago and has since refused to leave my mind (as you can probably tell from how much I've written since then . . .) After completing The Scientist five!!!??? years ago, I had a funny idea of writing a coda from either Larry or Adam's POV, which obviously never eventuated to my great disappointment. So here we are, me tackling something a million times harder--the absolute trip that Bono goes through during that fic, something we were only slightly privy to.</p><p>Anyway, I know this is a lot of words in one go, and I don't expect people to rush out and read it all straight away, but I had to post everything I had and get it out of the way so I can return once more to the world and have my sanity back. Currently, I am considering this complete, as I think it offers a damn good explanation of Bono's mindset throughout the entire original fic, but I do have a few notes written that takes place after this fic ends, and may one day return to it and slam out a billion more words (Bono is wordy, you know) to complete the entire story as seen in The Scientist. Who knows what the future holds? The world might not even exist after this year, let's be real ahahaha . . . fuck 2020.</p><p>You'll also notice, perhaps, a few small changes, which were made because I was not happy with the original, and also a few extra scenes because I had a great desire for some things. Title comes from U2, shockingly, as I think part of that song matches what's going on here . . . think about it. I'll stop talking now, love love</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I don’t know when I started feeling differently about you. Truth be told, I might have fallen in love with you on that very first day in Larry’s kitchen.</p><p>How could I have not? You, with your shaggy hair, your elegant fingers that moved so well, your temperament which reminded me so much of Ali, all elbows and angles when she was soft and curvy. And your eyes, Edge, the way you looked at me when I knelt down in front of you, my own fingers hovering near yours as I attempted to shift you closer toward the melody that had been haunting me all day.</p><p>I still remember it, that look. You were a little taken aback by this strange, bold boy, yet curious. I could tell you wanted to know more, to discover what had happened in the world to create me, exactly as I am. But it went both ways, didn’t it? I’d been just as curious.</p><p>Yet it never occurred to me until later, much later, looking back and wondering. And even then, when I’d had my suspicions, it still hadn’t become an urgent matter, a pressing concern. Just something that lingered in the background, that poked its head forward from time to time, reminding me that, yes, you were extremely special to me. You were needed to keep me sane, to keep me <em>me</em>. The two of you, working your magic on a hopeless case.</p><p>“What’s so funny?” I asked Ali one night in some nameless bar somewhere in America.</p><p>“Just you and Edge.”</p><p>“What about me and Edge?”</p><p>“The way you are,” she replied, forever determined to remain a little mysterious around me. I don’t recall what it was we’d been doing to prompt such a discussion. For all I know, we could have been dancing the fucking tango together in that nameless bar, tipsy and pressed up a little too closely. As is our way. But I remember her amusement, just as I recall her quiet contemplation later, after settling in bed. I imagine she was a little tipsy herself, having imbibed enough to loosen her tongue. “You’re different with him.”</p><p>“In what way?”</p><p>“Just different. Not like with the other boys.”</p><p>“I guess,” I said, not knowing what else to say, wanting that to be the end of it, wanting her to continue on until she arrived at a conclusion that allowed me to keep my mouth shut for a change. Instead, she just watched me, waiting for an expansion of thought. It hadn’t come, not how it should have. The only thing I thought to say was, “You’re very similar, you and Edge.”</p><p>It was the wrong thing to say, though I didn’t know it at first. Or maybe I did. Maybe I was just a permanent dickhead. “Is there something I should know?” she asked after staring into my soul for a good few seconds.</p><p>“Of course not,” I replied, adding, “Never,” like it was needed. And then we made love, but not because I had something to prove. No, I simply wanted her, like I always did, like I had from the very first moment I saw her.</p><p>That was the difference between you and her, Edge, the difference between how I approached you both for so long. It was almost never a sexual thing with you—besides the occasional random dreams and fantasies, and that one night early on when we both went to bed drunk and I touched myself, knowing you were awake and listening, the thrill of being called out, the danger of it all tipping me over the brink far too quickly.</p><p>I’ve never longed for you like I did her, no, it was simply about the emotional connection. Perhaps there was an element of romance there, a hint of seduction required on stage and sometimes off to flourish that connection, but mostly it was different than sex. Deeper. A third of my soul existing beside me, that’s all I ever needed from you.</p><p>Until it wasn’t.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>I’m not as drunk as I could be. Or, really, at all. I’m not as drunk as Paul—always an entertaining experience, watching the grownup become loose, that voice of his masquerading as a commoner’s—or Joe, for example. Not even close. And I’m not as drunk as you, Edge, and you are yet to get loud or . . . slurry. If that’s a word.</p><p>It’s a night for celebration, apparently, although I’m yet to figure out what we are celebrating. Our day off? Can it really be called a day off when part of it is spent with the media? I guess so. Not that it matters. You know me, I’m almost always down for some celebrating. Loud, passionate, <em>ferocious</em> celebrating.</p><p>But I’m not feeling it tonight, for reasons that are yet to be clear to me, and I’m not as drunk as I could be. Nursing the same drink for as long as it takes Paul to put away two and a quarter. Sneakily checking my watch, sliding closer to you simply because I need the attention. I think tonight I would rather be on stage. But I’m not, and naturally, neither are you, and for the next couple of hours, at least, we are instead destined to exist in this nameless bar in Providence.</p><p>I could leave. I could do a lot of things. Whatever I want, in fact, within reason. Probably not get away with murder, as there are some rules in life which should be enforced. But when you’re famous, people have this habit of looking the other way when something a little naughty is going down. Such as borrowing a boat.</p><p>It’s not that naughty, really. I always return them in one piece, and I always will. Hopefully.</p><p>And it is a fact that, while you complain about my driving and have been known to mention your fears of dying while I’m behind the wheel—complete hyperbole, if you ask me—you’ve only once criticized my skills as the captain of a boat. Which, personally, I count as a win.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” you ask out of the blue, throwing me briefly. I didn’t even realize you were watching me. Or that there might be anything wrong with me. Is there? Is it written all over my face, and I didn’t even realize?</p><p>“Nothing?” I reply. Your eyes slightly narrow; you’re not convinced. And now neither am I. Look at you, manufacturing a crisis within your singer, you clever boy. “I’m <em>fine</em>, The Edge.”</p><p>“Finish your drink,” is your only response after a few seconds of staring into my soul.</p><p>“Stop trying to get me pissed.”</p><p>“I don’t have to try to do that, B, it happens on its own so well.”</p><p>“Are you suggesting I have a problem?”</p><p>“Your drink is getting warm, that’s the only problem I’m gonna suggest tonight.”</p><p>“Then buy me another one.”</p><p>“It’s a tab.”</p><p>“Then pay the fucking tab tonight.”</p><p>“I think I partly am.”</p><p>You’re not slurring, nor loud, but your smile is beginning to teeter. You are so effortlessly endearing, and you don’t even know it. “I have an idea,” I say, and you immediately shake your head. “You’ve not even heard it.”</p><p>“I know the kind of ideas you get.”</p><p>“Yes, great ones.”</p><p>“The line between great and ridiculous blurs a lot when it comes to your ideas, Bono.”</p><p>“Trust me on this one.”</p><p>“You want me to trust you?”</p><p>How many times have you said that to me over the years? I lost count somewhere in the early eighties. A better question might be: how many times have you been skeptical yet went along with it anyway?</p><p>“You want to get out of here?” I ask, ignoring your reservations entirely. It’s only when your eyebrows shoot up that I realize my tone was a touch too . . . suggestive. Not my intention. Perhaps I’m slightly tipsier than first thought? “And go to the Marina, Edge, get your mind out of the gutter.”</p><p>Your eyebrows come down, though you’re still giving me a different look than expected. “We are not going to the Marina, B.”</p><p>“You don’t want to go cruising with me tonight?”</p><p>“Jesus Christ.”</p><p>“Cruising on a <em>boat</em>, you dirty dog.”</p><p>“I know, but . . .” you trail off, laughing, and I think I almost have you, but then you turn back to me and again shake your head. “Not tonight.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“I think you should be a good boy tonight.”</p><p>“Why? I’m always good.”</p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p>“Anyway, what’s wrong with being a bit naughty from time to time?”</p><p>“If we get on a boat,” you say instead of answering my question in full, “you’ll want to have the complete boating experience and we won’t get in until the sun is high in the fucking sky.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>It’s a good comeback, simple yet straight to the point. You don’t have an immediate response, and it’s fun to watch you flounder. “I just think it would be an interesting and life-altering experience for you—I mean, us, <em>both</em> of us, to actually spend more than a handful of hours with our beds.”</p><p>This <em>us</em> talk . . . you don’t fool me for a second.</p><p>“I slept at least forty seconds last night, The Edge,” I boast, despite wanting to say <em>stop being needlessly concerned about my physical existence, you sweet, peculiar thing</em>. “And I woke up feeling completely rejuvenated. Like I could take on the world. Who needs to sleep? We’re rock stars. You know what rock stars do instead of sleeping? They take boats out for joyrides in Rhode Island.”</p><p>“Of course they do,” you reply. “They do a lot of things, in fact. Would you like some cocaine with that? A little speed?”</p><p>“Ooh, you bad boy.” I offer you a wink, and you laugh prematurely. “You’re only just now offering? What kind of friend are you?”</p><p>“No means no, Bono.”</p><p>“To the drugs? Because you didn’t—”</p><p>“To everything!” You laugh again, then swiftly turn away, as if that’ll actually make me believe you can be firm with me.</p><p>“You’ve wounded me, Edge.” I sigh into my glass, then tap your foot with mine. “Go get me another drink to atone for your cruelty, this one’s gone warm.”</p><p>“Fuck off!” you retort, returning that tap in a way that might result in a bruise on my person tomorrow, but your eyes are dancing, and you immediately get up and do as I’ve asked.</p><p>It’s unexpected, yet delightful. What else could I make you do? And why would you do them? I know I expect too much of you sometimes, but only on stage, or in the studio. Not now, not in private, I don’t think. I hope I don’t, that would be incredibly selfish on my part. You really should tell me no more. You should tell me a lot of things.</p><p>You mystify me, The Edge.</p><p>Soon enough, I leave your side to mingle like I should, clutching the glass you brought me, situating my arse in Adam’s lap because I can, flirting with the ladies because I’m not sure I know how to stop. Socializing. I do it so well, they tell me, and they’re mostly right.</p><p>“Either get off,” Adam says after a few minutes of tolerating me weighing him down, “or start wriggling your hips to make this actually worth my time.”</p><p>“Get off or get you off, you mean?” I ask, dropping my voice a full octave. “Adam, I didn’t know you liked me like that.”</p><p>“Well, I figure if I close my eyes and you somehow manage to keep quiet, I can convince myself you’re a woman.”</p><p>“Impossible, I am far too much of a man—”</p><p>“But you are a little curvy in places, Bono,” Adam cuts in, smiling like he’s already proud of how he’s going to direct this conversation. He’s had a few, so I don’t think it’s fair to start raging his way, although I refuse to stand back and simply take it.</p><p>“Excuse me, motherfucker, I am not.”</p><p>“You are, though, you . . . motherfucker.” It’s not a convincing argument, nor is his poking my not-curvy thigh with one finger, yet his expression reads as though he’s just offered up enough evidence to convince the jury. He hasn’t. After glancing around the table, however, I find not nearly as much indecisiveness as I would like. “Not to mention you’re about as tall as many of the women I know, or even shorter than some of them—”</p><p>“How dare you?”</p><p>“—although none of them ever weighed as much as you do.”</p><p>“You posh fuck, where do you get off?” I exclaim, and Adam responds by shoving me until I get the hint. He’s still laughing once I’ve found my feet and spun back around to face him. “You can kiss my fat arse, Clayton.”</p><p>“You going to bend over right here?”</p><p>“Don’t put ideas into my head, <em>pal</em>.”</p><p>“Settle,” Sheila warns, failing at biting back her grin.</p><p>“Why don’t you go play with Edge, then?” he suggests, looking far too pleased with himself.</p><p>I glance over, contemplating doing just that, but you are occupied, giggling away at something Paul is emphatically verbalizing. “He’s not sturdy like you,” I say, pulling up a chair and flopping down. “He can’t handle me on top of him. Crumples like a leaf, he does. Although that hasn’t stopped me from trying.”</p><p>“Well,” someone speaks up, although I’m not sure who. It might be Sheila, or one of our other lovely women. Sometimes they all sound very similar—usually when I’ve done something stupid or about to try. I suppose it’s sort of like how some people struggle to know whether it’s me or Gav over the phone. It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, however, and I’m too busy looking back at you once more to differentiate. “This turned interesting rather quickly, didn’t it?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“Don’t worry your sweet head, love.” Definitely Sheila this time.</p><p>“Sweet,” Adam echoes with a snort. “That is not the word I would use.”</p><p>“This table is oppressing me,” I complain, but don’t leave. This is my group for now, and I’m happy to laugh along with them. I might even be feeling better about the night, looser in my physical and emotional self, although the open sea refuses to leave my mind.</p><p>There has always been a small part of me that’s tempted to escape from anything good in life. I’ve never understood it, struggled to accept it, hoped it would one day leave me, but it hasn’t.</p><p>“I think that’s just called being human,” you reassured me one night when I confessed this. And maybe you’re right, yet I wondered then and still do so now if you were simply lying to make me feel better.</p><p>A number of people over the years have suggested I seek out therapy, possibly due to crap like this, and I always say the same thing: music is my therapy. Singing in front of thousands, letting it all out, sharing my wonder, my pain, my joy with them . . . talking to a professional, I imagine, could never be nearly as effective for a man wired as I am. And they could never hold a candle to confiding in someone who actually knows me, instead of forming an understanding from a medical record, an interview, personal lyrics which somehow became widespread.</p><p>Confiding in Ali, in you. What more could I want or need?</p><p>You would get it if I sidled up to you now and explained the actual reason behind why I wanted to head to the Marina with you tonight. It wouldn’t be a permanent escape, and I don’t need it to be. One night of looking up at the stars, listening to the water shift, garnering a specific sense of freedom that has been mostly lacking these past few years. Wouldn’t that just be something, The Edge?</p><p>I might even let you captain the boat, hand over control entirely. There’s especially something freeing about that idea, although I can’t put my finger on why.</p><p>It’s a thought that sticks in my mind as, two drinks later, I get up and head to the bathroom. Who knows? When this tour is finally over, perhaps I can convince you to buy a boat with me.</p><p>We could sail through the Mediterranean, end up on some stunning European beach, just the two of us breaking free from the realities of life. The two of us, alone, with the sand a stretch of glimmering whiteness, the water clear enough to see my sad little feet slowly sinking beneath the surf, and you with your camera, taking pictures of this and that. The sky, the sun and the moon, the horizon and me. You could capture us all.</p><p>It would serve as a good distraction for you, I think, a way of forgetting what’s been lost at home. And me? I would just love being taken along for the ride, whenever you asked. Wherever you felt like going. You’ve rarely had an idea I disagreed with, and you definitely would not in this context.</p><p>Why wait until the tour is over? I’ll whisper it in your ear tonight, put the thought in your mind, make you think it over and over until finally, you give in, just because I won’t let you be. You need to start telling me no more, Edge, but you won’t. Not definitively. I’m sure of it.</p><p>I’ll whisper it in your ear once I’m done here, and you’ll laugh and shake your head at me and maybe tell me no, then look at me in that way of yours, searching for something—whatever it is you seek out, an element within me which you insist on keeping a secret despite my attempts at needling—searching as I continue trying to sway you to the Dark Side. I’ll get right up into your personal space if I have to, and even if I don’t.</p><p>Maybe I am closing in on being slightly drunk now, there is a small chance, but that’s fine. I’ve made some of my best arguments while tanked up on Guinness, and I’ll get what I want this time around.</p><p>I’ll tell you about the sea, about the beach that exists in my mind, the one I’ve already labelled as belonging to us. I’ll keep talking until you forget all about telling me no.</p><p>The bathroom is surprisingly empty, save for one dude unzipping three urinals down, who I pay no attention despite sensing his eyes on me. Somewhere along the way, this became a common occurrence, men either following me into the jacks or staring while I’m trying to mind my own business and <em>do</em> my own business.</p><p>I imagine they’re either on the hunt for an autograph or checking to see if I really do have the same bits and bobs as every other man on this damn planet (shockingly, I do, and it works and is built just fine, thank you very much) and, thankfully, it’s become less weird for me as time has gone on. That doesn't mean it's not still a fucking odd experience for me, because it is, but generally, they stop staring once they’re satisfied.</p><p>Not this guy. His gaze remains burning into me well after I get my fly open. Being the person that I am, I throw a brief yet charming smile his way, then continue to size him up sidelong in a manner that hopefully isn’t obvious.</p><p>He’s a bit like you, in fact, in a strange way. Similar height, build, body language, and his returning smile fills me with a touch of warmth that’s familiar, though not nearly as potent, as needed. It’s not a grin that suggests he’s on the hunt for an autograph, nor one that says <em>I’m going to murder you, famous boy, and have my name known for the rest of my days</em>.</p><p>No, this is a different beast entirely, and it’s a little thrilling, a little weird, and utterly confusing. I’ve got to be drunk. The room isn’t spinning, I can easily walk and talk in a straight line, but <em>come on</em>.</p><p>He finishes before I do, heading to wash his hands then dry them, his intentions becoming completely obvious when he lingers by the sinks. I could leave without washing my hands, but I don’t want to get a reputation (though he doesn’t seem like the type of guy to divulge what goes down in the men's bathroom) and I was not raised to be that person. He’s waiting for me, in a place that is basically unavoidable. I hope someone will walk in at any moment, I’m glad we’re alone, I don’t know what the fuck I’m wishing will happen in the next forty seconds.</p><p>Thirty-one is a great age to have a slight sexuality crisis, apparently. Marc Bolan really has a lot to answer for, after first making me wonder, although you’ve made the bigger—and only—impact in that department since then. But that’s mostly pure . . . mostly.</p><p>This, on the other hand? This sudden need turning within me, that pressure burning deep and low? That’s pretty fucking rare, and he is not you, The Edge. But he could be, if I dare to pretend. I wouldn’t.</p><p>I won’t.</p><p>With no options left, I amble over to wash my hands, asking, “Problem, mate?” as if that’ll solve the issue at hand. He shakes his head, still smiling as he leans back against the wall, not nearly as shy about his wants and needs as you often are. He is not you. “Good to know.”</p><p>“I know who you are.”</p><p>“Yeah? People tell me that sometimes, though I don’t know why.” I turn off the tap then make my next apparent devil-may-care move, closing in on him to snag a paper towel from the dispenser by his shoulder. “I must just have one of those faces.”</p><p>He’s not fooled. And why should he be? I’ve been on the cover of <em>Rolling Stone</em> magazine enough times to get a fucking clue, sold millions of tickets and albums, even won some awards. It’s a damn rarity these days for anyone to buy this attempt at self-protection, and often I don’t want them to, nor do I try.</p><p>No, he’s not fooled at all, and neither is he timid, as it turns out. I’ve met many women as bold as this guy, but I never expected to encounter such a person in the men’s in Providence, Rhode Island. “I would do anything to fuck you,” he whispers in my ear after leaning in closer, actually rendering me speechless.</p><p>I turn to him, take an unconscious step back, and surprise myself by giggling. Like a fucking schoolgirl. Which, naturally, does not deter him in the slightest.</p><p><em>Anything?</em> I almost ask, my mind clearly working on another plane of existence—or not, if I’m to be completely honest, it might be working in tandem with the rest of my body—as he stares me down, obviously emboldened by me not having yet punched his lights out or otherwise.</p><p>His eyes are screaming sex, yet there’s something else there, hidden behind that pressing thought, which makes the situation and him so much more intriguing. A gentleness that should surprise me but doesn’t. It’s his eyes, Edge, that remind me of you, more than the rest of him.</p><p>“Anything,” he says, as if he’s been reading my mind but is a single idea behind.</p><p>I don’t have a response. I open my mouth to answer anyway, taking another step back, and then two steps forward. What is it that I said to you once? <em>I don’t know what I’m doing until after I’ve done it</em>? It’s the truth, it is. Except for when it’s not. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“James,” he answers, just as the door behind me squeaks open. Instinctively, I take a step back, and then another, his face falling. What else is there to do? What did he fucking expect? My mind has been made up. It never was unmade in the first place, and I wouldn’t dare let it.</p><p>I wouldn’t. I won’t.</p><p>“Have a good night, James,” I tell him with a grin, one that, if I’m lucky enough, is an effective mask.</p><p>He’s still watching me as I turn and walk away, binning my paper towel and passing by this new unsuspecting dude on my way out.</p><p>I hope James can take the hint and stay in the bathroom until I’ve made my escape, a small part of me wonders what my own reaction would be if he were to immediately follow me out. I make a beeline for your side without glancing back and don’t get the response from you that I’m after, but it’s okay.</p><p>I don’t need you to look at me any longer than you should, to ask me if I’m alright, if there’s anything you can do to help me work through this new small issue that will dominate the chaos that exists within me for God knows how long. Because that’s an apt description, isn’t it?</p><p>When you three watch me approach sometimes and say, “Here comes chaos,” I accept it’s not just my general un-togetherness you’re referring to, but specific elements like my thoughts, my emotions, my way of shifting through this world as though I’m forever walking the line between clumsiness and grace. But I don’t even need you to say that now, nor say my name at all or pay any attention to me, not yet.</p><p>No, I simply need to slide into your personal space, near enough to feed off your energy, your calmness. Even when you’ve had your fair share, you generally manage to give me that, and you are drunk now, while I remain not nearly as close to that as I could be. I don’t have a single excuse—for any of it.</p><p>Yet when I scan the room and see him there, leaning against the wall with a drink in his hand, watching me—watching us—I can’t help myself. I sling my arm over your shoulders, and finally, you give me the attention I need. However, as a performer, I have this ridiculous habit of showing off for more than one person at a time. His gaze only empowers me further, me and my commitment to the cause.</p><p>As is often the case, you instinctively grasp my hand for a few seconds before releasing it, my fingers falling to brush against your collarbone once more as you look at me and grin.</p><p>“Where the hell have you been, anyway?”</p><p>“Oh, here and there,” I answer somewhat whimsically, smiling back, keeping my eyes fixed on you despite wanting to glance elsewhere for a change. I hope he saw that, you taking my hand, and I don’t know why. Am I wishing he were jealous? Of you? Of <em>this</em>? I’ve absolutely no idea what the fuck I’m doing right now, or why. Chaos. Perhaps that should have been my nickname. Chaos and The Edge. It almost works. “You know how I like to get around.”</p><p>You laugh. I knew you would. And just like that, you seem to forget our tablemates entirely, which they are probably anticipating, given how unbothered they are by it all. You wrap your arm around my back, your fingertips gently digging into my waist, and pull me closer, just as a part of me hoped might happen. “I do know that, as a matter of fact,” you reply. “Been up to no good?”</p><p>I simply smile—mum’s the word—and keep looking at you, because that’s where my attention should be. You, with your elegant fingers that move so well, even now, your temperament, a third of my soul pressed up warm against my side.</p><p>It’s almost all I’ve ever needed from you, but right now I’m tempted to ask for more, to make him think. A weird male thing, perhaps a little primal, me practically marking my territory in reverse. <em>This one is mine, and he owns me, so back off</em>. But you’re not, and you don’t, though James does not know this. He doesn’t know a damn thing about us. He might think he knows the score, certainly, and I figure this could throw him.</p><p>It has. I glance his way, as I cannot help myself, and find him still staring, his expression making me feel very powerful indeed.</p><p>Of course I know what I’m doing. When has that ever stopped me before? I might be mad, yet I’m also in control, <em>James</em>, something I only seek to relinquish with a very select and small group of people. Definitely not some fan trying to pick up in the fucking men’s.</p><p>“What’re you thinking there, B?”</p><p>I shrug, staring across the room as I tilt my head against your shoulder, my hair brushing your cheek, causing you to chuckle. And that’s all it takes. I lose sight of James entirely.</p><p>“I’m thinking about the Marina, Edge,” I answer, pulling back just enough to see your reaction, your smile, the <em>here we go again</em> written all over your face. “I’m thinking about the ocean.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Don’t you want to know why I’m thinking about the ocean?”</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>“You’re involved, you know.”</p><p>“I fucking know that already, dickhead!”</p><p>I’m not deterred by your negativity. What I am, is patient. I wait until you turn away, then lean in once more and whisper in your ear exactly what I wanted to say, although it’s not as smooth or as convincing as I hoped. Still, it’s a pretty little idea, no matter how it’s framed. That glimmering sand, the line of the horizon, just the two of us forgetting all about the world we’ve left behind, at least for a couple of days.</p><p>And you laugh and shake your head but don’t tell me no, not outright, giving me a fond, probing, slightly off-kilter look before saying, ”You’re a bit mad, B.”</p><p>I return your grin, yet find myself briefly glancing across the room, only to discover James is gone. But is he <em>gone</em>-gone, or has he just relocated? What would I do if I discovered him outside waiting for us, if he were to follow me back to the hotel? Well, what would I do if a lot of things happened? If you started telling me no when you should, or if we bought that fucking boat together? It’s hard to predict. After all, I often don’t know what I’m doing until after I’ve done it.</p><p>“Tell me something I don’t know, The Edge.”</p><p>It’s late when we finally leave, you half on your arse, Adam already having slipped away to a second location, the rest of our people in various stages of undone, scattered here, there and everywhere. You laugh when Bill attempts to get me to join in on a stunning rendition of <em>The Monkees</em> theme song, but I am not so easily swayed this evening. My thoughts are elsewhere. I’m still not as drunk as I could be.</p><p>“We could go find a boat now,” you tell me only once we’re stepping into the damn elevator of our hotel. “We still . . . there’s plenty of time left.”</p><p>“Nah, it’s passed.”</p><p>“It has not.”</p><p>“Let it go, Edge!”</p><p>“Okay, but we’ll do it, one day,” you insist, and I lean into you for a sideways hug.</p><p>“Yeah, we fucking will.”</p><p>“We fuckin’ will.”</p><p>I leave you go to sleep it off in your bed, my steps a touch careful as I make my way into my own suite, flicking lights on as I go, downing a large glass of water because I’m a good boy, before brawling with my own pants in the bathroom. I leave them flung over the side of the bath, sleek black against startling white, then attend to business before brushing my teeth—still a good boy—and shuffling off to fall between the sheets.</p><p>Sleep is necessary, sleep is wanted. I’m determined to slip away fast, to not think about a single damn thing, not about you, not about boats or beaches, maybe about Ali just because my mind is always partly there, and definitely not about anything else. But, as is often the case with me, defiant and attempted ignorance leads thy brain right toward temptation.</p><p>There was that feeling, a couple of hours back. That need turning, pressure revealing itself deep and low. I’m not sure it really, fully went away. I think it might even have started, and was deftly ignored, before I stepped foot into that bathroom, and why? Why was that? There was really nothing provocative being considered, just the thought of sand, of the sun and the moon, no seduction yet in play.</p><p>He wanted to fuck me. A lot of people do, although it’s not the real me they’re after. They might think it is, but they don’t know me. They just know the fame, the status, the voice in their ear, body on stage. What would they think, if they spent some time with the real me, listened to my insecurities, my fears? Would they still be looking to undo my shoelaces, my pants, take off my shirt? Maybe, maybe not. Would <em>he</em> still have wanted it?</p><p>I think so. I think he might have.</p><p>And I think he meant what he said, exactly that. It wasn’t <em>I want to go down on you</em>, or <em>let me jerk you off, feel you come in my hand</em>. He wanted to fuck me. Right there in the bathroom, or someplace else. This very bed, perhaps? Who knows. It doesn’t matter.</p><p>I’ve never really thought too much about it. Once, I found myself curious enough to try something different in the shower, to see what all the fuss was about but the angle wasn’t right to make a good effort of it and I never bothered trying again.</p><p>Maybe I should have. Maybe then I would have had a better idea of what it might feel like, when he whispered in my ear. And maybe I would have thought back to it now, a memory to get me through the next few minutes, or less. Less.</p><p>But I can make it up, tell myself I know what it’s like for now, that I’ve been here before, and I’m fine with giving up that much control to a man, a fan, someone who doesn’t know me at all.</p><p>I can spread my legs, close my eyes and touch myself, and have him touch me, his other hand shifting in the sand by my head right there on the beach, though it’s not our beach but Killiney, it’s home because the sound of the waves breaking, the smell of the air, the life I belong to will never leave my mind, even now. Even now, as he draws me closer, as he pushes me against the sand and digs his fingertips into my thighs and holds me there, holds me down. A fan taking advantage of their power, their claim over a drunken rock star instead of the other way around. But I’m not as drunk as I could be, and he knows it, and you know it, and I think you would understand why, I think you would be gentle with me until you weren’t.</p><p>And there on the sand, I open my eyes and it’s you, Edge, not him, you above me, inside of me, moving against me, your hand on me. It’s your elegant fingers that move so well against my cock as you look down at me on the glimmering white sand, still curious about this strange, bold boy you know so well as you whisper in my ear, words that don’t mean a fucking thing but still work, still cause me to moan and say your name and come in your hand, in my hand, and then you are gone.</p><p>I open my eyes, still shuddering, still alone, blinking against the darkness until a semblance of clarity comes back into play and there’s nothing left to do but let out a breathy little, “Fuck.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Blip in the System</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Mornin’,” Adam greets me, his voice having lost a significant amount of its refinement, though he sounds cheerful enough, in every way I’m currently not. “Did you want to go to lunch?”</p><p>I don’t respond, not at first, anyway. I’m still trying to deal with the physical and emotional trauma of being awoken by a ringing phone, not to mention all the other bullshit bouncing around in my thick head.</p><p>“Why are you awake?” I ask, then frown, fumbling for my watch on the bedside table. It’s not there.</p><p>“Well—”</p><p>“What time is it?” It’s not there because it’s on my wrist, but that doesn’t mean a fucking thing right now. My eyes are half-glued shut.</p><p>“It’s just gone eleven, did I wake you?”</p><p>“Eleven?” I pause, considering this, considering a couple of things but getting nowhere. “Why are you awake?”</p><p>“Actually, I woke up feeling rather well, surprisingly, given the sun was rising when I got in. I saw some squirrels when I was walking back.”</p><p>“ . . . okay?”</p><p>“I thought you might appreciate the sighting.”</p><p>Again, I don’t reply. My eyes are sore, rubbing them does nothing (although I try it anyway, and am rewarded with increased blurriness) and I don’t have much of a hangover I can pin this, or any of my problems on. I saw eight am, I might even have seen nine am, and I’m still not wearing anything but a shirt. I was when I went to bed. I was wearing fucking Calvin’s, which are now on the pillow next to me like they’re my lover instead of a reminder.</p><p>“So that’s a no on lunch then?”</p><p>“What? Oh. Um.”</p><p>“Go back to sleep, Bono.”</p><p>“Why? I’m fine.”</p><p>“I’m sure,” Adam says wryly,” but do it anyway, for me.”</p><p>“How can I argue with that? “Okay.”</p><p>We hang up, although I miss the cradle at first, violently smacking the receiver into the table instead. Sorry, Adam. Here’s hoping only the dial tone heard that one. The second attempt is far more successful, my world falling into complete silence once again.</p><p>Immediately, I’m tempted to call him back and say, “I really am fine, now where do you want to go and how long do you want to stay there? Until we have to leave for the venue? Perfect, that is completely ideal. Yes, I <em>am</em> fine, Adam, I swear. Never been better.” Anything to keep the noise going for as long as I can. I’ve had enough of the silence. Of my own thoughts bouncing around in my thick head.</p><p>I don’t, though. Despite what many people think, I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m being a pain in the arse or utterly useless—mostly. Adam doesn’t need to deal with either of those things today. Not until it’s time for soundcheck, anyway. Jesus. We have a show tonight.</p><p>We have a fucking show tonight.</p><p>I hike the covers up and roll over, determined to bury my head in the sand until someone comes barging in to hustle me out into the world. It wouldn’t be the first time I was directed into the shower by a person who gave up being gentle with me years ago—having realized <em>hurrythefuckup</em> eyes and a persistent reminder that both fans and crew are actually counting on me to get it moving works better. Nor would it be the last. Where would I be without our tenacious team? Where would I be without Ali and you?</p><p>Not in this bed. Not anywhere of note. Certainly not on the beach with you, although perhaps washed up <em>somewhere</em>.</p><p>I hike the covers up a little further, past my chin. It doesn’t have the effect I’d hoped. I can still see the sunlight seeping through the curtains—never the greatest sight when one’s eyes are being bastards, even after squeezing them shut. And my underwear hasn’t shifted from its prime spot, which is unsurprising, given I have not touched them and they are not sentient beings. Yet the sight remains unsettling, because, clearly, I have some fucking issues underneath this tough and half-grown exterior.</p><p>I’ve thought about you before, of course. Imagined your hands on me, your mouth on my skin, your breath in my ear, whispering <em>Bono</em> or <em>B</em> or <em>look at me baby . . . fuck, ohfuck</em>. It’s surprisingly rare, given my feelings for you, but it does happen. And once or twice when I was but a young pup, I did actually have a dream about Marc Bolan where he was singing to me, just me, his gaze so intense I’d almost glanced away—<em>me, </em>breaking eye contact—and awoken hard as a rock and confused, faintly curious, and physically distracted for the next few minutes until I’d regained the ability to again think straight.</p><p>There’s a difference, though, between then and now, a difference that’s turned me into you, the official overthinker of the band. Frankly, The Edge, it’s rather exhausting and I was over it after about twenty minutes or so. How do you do this all the fucking time? And why? (I know why, I do. Seriously. Sometimes I just can’t control my brain or body either.)</p><p>But it’s your mouth or your hand getting me through those lonely nights when needed, or my mouth and my hand making you moan, as sometimes the thought of giving instead of receiving is so erotic I can hardly bear it. And once, it was the two of us fucking a faceless girl together, you figuring out how to shut someone else up for a change, someone who isn’t me, while I took care of business down below. You stopped to kiss me, though, to touch me before either of us got too far.</p><p>She could have been anybody; she didn’t matter. You did.</p><p>But never have I considered you, or anyone for that matter, fucking me. And it shouldn’t be a big deal. There was a time when I never considered you going down on me either, until that first curious fantasy ruined me in record time. I’ve had so many firsts with you, Edge, a small amount you’re not aware of, that exist only in my mind, and generally I’ve taken them all in my stride or coped after a moderate amount of personal angst.</p><p>It shouldn’t be a big deal. Why the fuck has it turned into a big deal?</p><p>There are a few theories, some which seem more plausible than others, having been rolled around a number of times during the night. Right now, however, I’m determined to shift any blame away from us, because . . . just because I can. Fucking James. Does that little prick know what he’s done? It’s not decent. It’s inhumane. It’s still far too curious when I’m already naked from the waist down.</p><p>Instead of giving in as I’m prone to do, I drag my sorry arse out from underneath the covers and into the shower, where I neglect the cold water tap and come out a brilliant shade of pink. Perfect. That’s all one needs to sort themselves out.</p><p>Five minutes later, I’m knocking on your door, not giving a single fuck in my white bathrobe and sunglasses. It’s a look we could almost make work, a potential suggestion to jokingly raise for the European leg. Comfort over sexiness—wasn’t that our motto during a good chunk of the eighties? Back when black leather wasn't all the rage. </p><p>You open the door, murder on your mind, an expression that softens only slightly when you see it’s me. I woke you up, obviously, and I feel a little bad about doing so, but not <em>that</em> bad.</p><p><em>I need your energy</em>, I almost say to you as I shuffle on in. <em>I need your calm</em>.</p><p>“You can go back to bed if you want,” I graciously mutter, as I’m not a monster. “I’m just going to . . . crash on your couch, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>“You have a couch in your own room. And a bed.”</p><p>“That is true.”</p><p>I set up camp in your sitting area anyway, decidedly focusing on the television instead of you. It’s a marvellous idea that gets me absolutely nowhere fast.</p><p>As I flick through the channels, you stand by the armrest, just staring at me. I refuse to meet your eyes, The Edge. I’ll give in soon enough. We both know I can’t go more than a minute without seeking you out. Without searching for that connection. You fucked me last night. You looked into my eyes and fucked me. What is sex without that connection? A blip in the system, a distraction that soon enough returns to someone familiar, to you.</p><p>“Are you okay?” you ask after a full minute of inwardly fussing about. I don’t know why. We’ve been through this song and dance before. Not specifically this issue, but . . . couch claiming and the likes.</p><p>“Why wouldn’t I be?” I respond as I stretch out, leaving enough space by my feet in case you feel the need.</p><p>And you do, and I’m never surprised. You sit down, moving like you’ve been partly bested by the previous evening, glancing over at me after settling. Searching for a connection. I give in, gazing back, and you actually smile at me, your grumpiness having faded enough. That’s just you, Edge. You and your calm. It’s catching. I return the smile and you shake your head, then look away first.</p><p>We doze for a while. We might even have fallen asleep, although I can’t be sure. There is a certain grogginess that sticks around when we do finally drag ourselves back to the world of the living. We have a show tonight. I’m sure you’ll sort yourself out in time. Me, on the other hand . . . well, God only knows.</p><p>You order room service, something with noodles for you, eggs for me as I’m not feeling fancy, and plenty of coffee. You don’t talk much, but that’s okay. It’s not needed right now, not when I’m fine with observing you push around your vegetables as if they’ve personally offended you.</p><p>I’m not sure you know I’m watching. I can be sneaky when I want to be, and a pair of dark sunglasses often help guard the truth, yet you still generally seem to read me like an open book when our eyes meet and I smile—or I don’t. Especially when I don’t.</p><p>I think you know my moods better than I know them myself, The Edge. And you’re smart enough to understand how to handle them, unlike . . . well, me, even if that handling does sometimes involve you just walking away. You clever boy, you.</p><p>It’s that connection. An intimacy that comes with knowing a person, through and through. That’s what sex should be about, not having it off with some dude in a bathroom stall. Giving yourself to another person, relishing the trust and emotion which, on some nights, becomes purely erotic, other nights a mix between eroticism and an expression of sheer love and shared faith. Reaffirming that commitment, that understanding, that intimacy.</p><p>And there are some days when I think I know exactly what Ali is going through, as she clings to me, wraps her legs around my body and melts against the bed. But truthfully, I don’t know what it’s like, not that way. Giving myself up entirely, handing over complete control in the bedroom, having someone inside you. It must be different for a woman, or some men. It might even draw out a deeper emotion that I’ve never experienced, though who knows—perhaps I’m just thinking in circles.</p><p>“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a man fuck you?”</p><p>It slips out, and there’s absolutely no time to fully comprehend what I just said before you start choking on your noodles. Not my intention. Not really what either of us wanted at all. And probably a sign the answer to my ill-timed question is no.</p><p>Like a good friend, I slap you on the back, certain this will not be the end of you yet still mildly concerned. For both of us, actually, as I’m sure you might have your own questions once you regain the ability to properly breathe, and I’m not quite ready to answer.</p><p>Eventually, you manage to wheeze out, “No?” while looking at me like you’ve no idea how to comprehend a single facet of my current existence. Which is fine. That makes two of us, but I’ve a plan, The Edge. A diversion.</p><p>“Hmm,” I say, taking another sip of my coffee, as though we’re having an everyday chat about football. “Adam said he saw some squirrels this morning, on his way back to the hotel.”</p><p>You continue to stare, that same expression on your face. Just one big question mark. But I’m determined. If past experiences have taught me anything, I can make you forget all about some stupid thing that’s been said simply by changing the subject and refusing to take the bait. And talking until it becomes too much for everyone involved. It is my superpower, or so I’ve been told—by one person. You.</p><p>I keep on about the squirrels, comparing them with our own back home, making careful considerations toward which is better, or cuter, or more of a pest. I think I mention Graceland. I’m sure I mention a lot of things. Truthfully, I’m not paying attention to what I’m selling. I don’t think you are either, as you stare at me like you’re trying to solve a math equation but can only count to seven. Soon enough, you give up entirely, standing and muttering about the shower before fucking off out of my life for the next twenty minutes or so.</p><p> “Jesus Christ,” I chastise myself once you’re out of earshot. “Kill him next time, why don’t you? Fuck me.”</p><p>Somehow, we make it through the show—rather successfully, if I do say so myself. I’m even more impressed, however, by me actually climbing into bed at a decent hour, staying there for a good nine hours and only thinking about it for a short while before falling into a brief coma.</p><p>“You seem perkier today,” Larry says the following day, as we make our way to the airport. He’s right, yet the fact that it comes out sounding like a backhanded compliment means I’ve no choice but to retaliate.</p><p>“I think you’ll find I’m <em>always</em> perky.”</p><p>“I think <em>you’ll</em> find that’s a fucking lie.”</p><p>“It’s true. I’m as perky as a pair of tits, you wanker.”</p><p>“The thing about tits,” you speak up unexpectedly, “is that they do sag after a while, B. So your argument is flawed.”</p><p>“Perky like a pair of Nana tits,” Larry says under his breath, feigning innocence by looking out the window.</p><p>“Don’t worry about them, Bono.” Adam reaches over to pat me on the knee, his smile more playful than warm. “I happen to like Nana tits, so I’m feeling extremely fond of you right now.”</p><p>“Gosh, that’s so touching, Adam, thank you,” I mutter, then give Larry a delayed smack. His reaction brings me an unsurprising amount of pleasure. “Unfortunately for you three, I’ve just now decided to be an absolute prick for the rest of this leg.”</p><p>“Oh good,” Larry says, rubbing his arm. “I do enjoy a sense of normalcy.”</p><p>Despite any recent comments I may have made, I am determined to remain positive and upbeat for at least the next few hours, hopefully longer. Providence is in the past, I am a new man, ready to face the world and move on from any prior distractions. It’s incredible what a good show and some sleep can do when it comes to rejuvenating one’s soul, mind and spiritual existence. I’m not even thinking about it anymore. I’ve already forgotten his name, the beach has left my mind entirely, and I’m again able to look at you just as I like.</p><p>And then everything falls apart once we’re up in the air and you’re right there, our arms brushing as you shift, trying to find a better napping position. I watch you with your eyes shut, I think about watching you sleep, I immediately place you in a bed next to me. And that’s just brilliant. Two minutes is all I need to regress entirely.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for you to sigh, open your eyes and ask, “What is it, Bono?”</p><p>Sometimes, I’m sure you can read my mind. At the very least, you understand the energy I put into the world each and every day. You know exactly when a change takes place. It’s you, Edge, that brings me calm onstage by simply existing when things aren’t going right, or backstage when I’m kicking a chair and screaming, the other two shuffling off like they have absolutely no interest in getting involved.</p><p>It falls out of me, the entire story—well, most of it. I can’t help myself, we both know this, and after my comment yesterday, there’s no doubt you must still have some questions. I tell you about James, what he said to me, my brief considerations, my deliberations on the intimacy of being fucked. What women must experience. What it might be like to have someone inside of me. Wisely, I leave out the aftermath. You don’t need to know about that. You definitely don’t need to know about your own involvement. I’m not interested in making you uncomfortable, in pushing you, especially when you don’t . . .</p><p>I’m certain you’ve never once thought of me that way. And that’s fine, that’s life. It’s better like this. It works as it should. No temptation for my mind to change this thing—this reliance I have toward you, these feelings—from apparent background noise to something more urgent, a plausibility. It’s not a necessity, but your presence in my life is, and I refuse to jeopardize that.</p><p>Again, however, it seems I just cannot help myself.</p><p>“If I were going to do that with someone, I would have to know him,” I tell you, and should leave it there, but don’t. Why not? Why am I like this? “And he would have to know me. Like you do.”</p><p>It comes out sounding a step away from requesting you fuck me right here, right now. From your reaction, you heard it in a similar way. I watch you shift in your seat, take in your sudden awkwardness, and suddenly regret that we’re in the air instead of on the road. I could escape if we were in a car. I could open the door and roll out onto the asphalt like an ungraceful cat. There are not too many places I can hide on an airplane, and you may yet follow me with some probing questions if I flounce down the aisle.</p><p>“Don’t overthink it, Edge,” I tell you right when you’re gearing up for something big. “I’m just thinking out loud.”</p><p>It does absolutely nothing to appease either of us. I’m not sure who is more uneasy, though I generally handle these situations better. At least, that’s what I like to tell myself.</p><p>When the silence becomes too much, I pull out a book and turn toward the window, while you close your eyes and pretend to sleep. It’s complete crap on both our parts. I stare at the same page for God knows how long, wondering what you’re thinking, inwardly chastising myself for whatever it is <em>I’ve</em> been thinking this past day or so. I don’t have to glance behind me to know what you look like with your eyes closed. I don’t have to try to imagine having you asleep next to me. It’s just one simple step to again place you in my bed from there. Jesus Christ, Edge, please don’t be reading my mind right now.</p><p>“You alright?”</p><p>This God of ours, I swear he has a twisted sense of humour.</p><p>“Fine,” I reply, turning the page of my book with far more force than is necessary.</p><p>“. . . okay then.”</p><p>I make it approximately an hour and a half before giving in and bringing the damn thing up again. We land, we check in to our hotel, I pace back and forth and get nowhere fast until my feet drag me to come knock on your door. There’s no point in letting this stretch out for too long, after all. In making you think there’s something to consider.</p><p>You should tell me no far often than you do. In an alternate universe, where everything is the same except I said <em>well, what if </em>we<em> fucked</em> instead of asking if you’d ever considered it in general, I’d like to believe you would tell me no. Because you should.</p><p>I would put good money on you never once having <em>I love you</em> come into your thoughts while looking my way without applying . . . <em>as a friend</em> at the end of it. Or wanking to the thought of my hand, my mouth, my body beside you.</p><p>You should tell me no, but you rarely do. And it’s because of this that I can’t let the idea incubate in your mind for too long. You will overthink it. You will want to put me first. You will do anything to protect me, and all of this can go one of two ways.</p><p>You’re tense, but you let me into your suite, putting a reasonable distance between us on the couch. When I say, “On the plane, I wasn’t suggesting that we have sex together,” your immediate response is to laugh, which I get, but it still stings a little, all the same.</p><p>I’m a complex fellow, what can I say.</p><p>But then you stop, you apologize, and you turn gentle. Understanding. “You can tell me anything,” you remind me, a statement that has been the truth since the day we met, except for a few small things pertaining to you. Feelings, love. This.</p><p>That’s it. That’s all I’ll ever keep from you, The Edge. I think that’s a good sign of a strong and stable friendship, don’t you?</p><p>It is. And it will continue. After all, we’ve managed to make it this far unscathed, haven’t we?</p><p>Yes. Yes, we fucking have.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It doesn’t leave me like I hoped it would. If anything, it grows. A seed planted by one fucker of a fan in Providence, Rhode Island. I’m almost sure I’ve not watered it too much, but that doesn’t stop it from blossoming. There must be some rain in those clouds, dampening the soil, reaffirming my belief that God does have a wicked sense of humour. Which a part of me appreciates, on one level.</p><p>I’ve always gotten along well with those who don’t take the world so seriously.</p><p>“What’s it like?” I ask Ali over the phone in Montreal, surprising myself and causing her to chuckle when I don’t offer any further context. She’s not confused, but she is patient. You both are. Early on, the two of you became used to such moments in conversations with me. Mostly, I don’t realize I’ve stopped or shifted to another topic until I reflect afterward, but this time I couldn’t be more aware.</p><p>“Finish that thought, baby.”</p><p>I’m not sure I can. It feels weird to ask, and also a bit telling. As is often the case, though, the words tumble out anyway. “Having me inside of you.”</p><p>“Is this going to be one of those calls where I should be alone instead of with our children, or are you asking because you’re curious?”</p><p>I could lie, but why bother? She’ll figure it out eventually. Another seed has been planted, and this time it’s my own damn fault. “I’m curious.”</p><p>“Why are you curious?”</p><p>“I just am.”</p><p>Ali pauses, breathing steadily as she thinks things through. I can picture her, fully formed in my mind. It’s a mental image that, when we’re not together, always destroys a part of me, a part that varies in size depending on the day, the situation. Today, it might just be my entire being that’s compromised.</p><p>“I feel safe, and loved, and . . .” she trails off, and I don’t cut in with my own thoughts. “It’s . . . some things are simply indescribable. You know this, though. You’re right there with me when it’s happening.”</p><p>“I don’t know it all.”</p><p>“B,” she says simply, one letter that means a million things between us. I understand it implicitly and feel utterly retched for leading her to this moment so quickly.</p><p>“I’m okay, love.”</p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p>“I’m always okay.” It’s a lie. We both know this, yet she doesn’t call me on it. “I’m not hunting for reassurance or anything.”</p><p>“Good, because you’ve definitely nothing to worry about there. You know that as well.”</p><p>“I do,” I say, breaking out a different tone so quickly I’m surprised I don’t give her whiplash. Levity is necessary, as is some flirting. It’s either that, or I experience another midlife crisis of sorts. “I bet people would be surprised to know how boisterous quiet little Alison Hewson can be sometimes.”</p><p>“B,” Ali warns warmly. “Don’t start with me now, not when I have your daughter latched on to my breast.”</p><p>“Are you trying to make me jealous?”</p><p>“That is completely horrible.”</p><p>“I know, sorry about that. Can we forget I said anything?”</p><p>“I’ll try, but it’ll be hard.”</p><p>“Mmm. You know what else is hard?”</p><p>“I’m hanging up now. I love you, but I’m hanging up.”</p><p>“No, you’re not.”</p><p>“Yes, I am.”</p><p>And she does. I give it two minutes before calling back. “I don’t know who that pervert was pretending to be me, love, but I’m apologizing on his behalf nonetheless.”</p><p>“Thank you, although I think we both know that won’t stop him.”</p><p>“You’re probably right, as usual.”</p><p>“No, I definitely am.”</p><p>“Then I apologize in advance for any future wrongdoings.”</p><p>“And I apologize for all the ways in which I might react.”</p><p>“Hopefully not <em>all</em> the ways you might react.”</p><p>“No, I suppose not,” she muses, and we laugh as if she is right here next to me, her amusement tapering off before mine. She’s silent for a thoughtful moment or two, then again says, “Why are you curious?” before I can come up with a way to distract her.</p><p>“I just am.”</p><p>It’s all I have, apparently. The only answer I can think to give her. It’s not enough. She knows me too well—a blessing and a curse. We breathe together, Ali mulling it over, me thinking what else I can say, words that I likely will not let out into the world as they wouldn’t be fair on her.</p><p>“Is there something I should know?” she finally asks, a question I half expected, one I’ve heard a few times over the years.</p><p>“No,” I reply. It’s not <em>of course not</em>, it’s not <em>never</em>, and it does little to settle her. “I love you.”</p><p>“I know you do. I love you too.” Another pause. “I wish you were here,” she says. “Or I was there.”</p><p>“It’s not too long now.” Another lie. All it takes is one pair of sunglasses, one small crisis and I turn into a complete arsehole. “I could fly you all out? Just say the word, Ali, and it’ll happen.”</p><p>“No, it’s okay, it’ll be too hard right now.” She sighs. “I’m not lonely, just—”</p><p>“Yeah. I know, love.”</p><p>“But you’re okay? You’re not . . . I suppose you’d be too busy to even—”</p><p>“Not always, you know what it’s like.”</p><p>“You’re not being a nuisance, are you?”</p><p>“. . . not always.”</p><p>“Well, they haven’t kicked you out of the band yet, that’s always a good sign,” she says with a laugh.</p><p>“Never say never, honey. Larry is probably waiting for that perfect moment to snap.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“And Adam . . . well, I don’t think Adam knows what’s going on half the time, so I’m likely safe there.”</p><p>“I think so too,” she agrees, then waits a few seconds before prompting, “And Edge?”</p><p>“He wouldn’t.”</p><p>“No, he wouldn’t.”</p><p>“He probably should some days, just like you probably should kick me out some days too.”</p><p>“But I rarely do.”</p><p>“You’re similar like that,” I say, only because I’m sure she’ll bring it up anyway. And because it’s the truth, and I do like talking about you, Edge, and comparing you and her when it’s just and decent (and sometimes when it’s not). Two souls working together to keep me from doing something irreversibly stupid in my life, like falling to my death or giving The Mullet a second chance at existing in this world.</p><p>“I remember.”</p><p>There’s more building, questions I can only assume I either don’t have an answer for or don’t want to think about right now. She says my name, her voice gentle, but I get in first. “Can I talk to JoJo?”</p><p>And just like that, it’s forgotten for another time, a later conversation when I’ve no doubt it’ll be brought up again, as I know my missus. She has a knack for talking things through, getting to the bottom of the issue whether I want to or not.</p><p>I, on the other hand, have a knack for talking, period, though sometimes I can shut up. A form of self-preservation, Edge. I learn only from the best.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The tour continues, as is its way, speeding across the United States at what mostly feels like a thousand miles per hour. Hold on tight, the motto goes, or else you’ll be snatched up by the roaring wind and find yourself left in the dust. Yet there are also those moments when it seems our world is moving in reverse.</p><p>Generally, that happens during the night when sleep remains far in the distance no matter how much one begs and the mind keeps tick-ticking along, raising questions, re-establishing ideas, troubles, memories, and anything else that might serve as a distraction.</p><p>I’m not fond of stagnation, of looking back. I prefer a world in motion, one where I can get out there and experience life exactly as I want. However, there are some days when no means no and we’re forced to stay indoors on our evenings off, for reasons out of my control. Security, illness, security again, and my own disposition. If pressed, I could think of a few other examples, but why bother?</p><p>I do sometimes miss the days of being able to walk the streets, or bringing fans up to my room for a chat and letting them sleep on my floor. Going bowling with them. Meeting new people. Having a complete sense of freedom.</p><p>“How far do you think we would get if we tried to sneak out right now?” I ask, and you give me a <em>look</em>. I almost feel sorry for you, The Edge. It’s a combination of issues today, security causing my disposition to teeter towards bothersome levels pretty quickly. No doubt you were considering making the most of your alone time, watching a documentary on some fauna, perhaps, or reading an interesting book. Instead, I came knocking, simply because I couldn’t help myself. I had to. “They might not expect it, you don’t know.”</p><p>“I think John always expects it when you’re involved.”</p><p>“He does sleep, Edge. And eat, among other things. He can’t always be ready for us. You just have to pick the right moments.”</p><p>“Ah, but it’s not always John, is it?”</p><p>“It should be.”</p><p>“Why, so you can take advantage of those times where he has to look after himself?”</p><p>“Yes. Although now that I think about it, Eric is easier to distract with shiny things. We might have a chance if he’s holding court. I have my ways, you know.”</p><p>You wisely choose not to fully engage with that line of thinking—although it’s true, and I should be commended for my sporadic ability to break free from our minders. Instead, you ask, “In theory, where would you want to go?”</p><p>“Right now?”</p><p>“Right now.”</p><p>I’ve no idea. We’re in Minneapolis, and while I know there are a number of places that I’ve found interesting here over the years, none come to mind. “Around.”</p><p>“Just around?”</p><p>“Does it matter? I have a great need to feel the breeze on my face, or strike up a conversation with someone who has no idea who I am. That's what's important here, not the specifics.”</p><p>“Hmm.” You tap on the arm of the couch, watching me thoughtfully. I’ve always enjoyed this particular expression of yours, and despite my frustrations, I’m appreciating the current company and view. “You could go sit on the balcony and yell down at random passer-by’s. One might yell back if you're lucky.”</p><p>“Don’t belittle my emotional pain, The Edge.”</p><p>“Emotional pain, really?”</p><p>“Look, let me be a drama queen, alright? I’ve spent so many years reigning in that side of me. This is the perfect tour for me to unleash it.”</p><p>“I don’t really recall you reigning it in at any time over the past decade,” you say with a sly grin that hits me when I least expect it. “But if it makes you feel better, then—”</p><p>“Why did I come here?”</p><p>“That’s a very good question.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, did I interrupt you learning a new skill or absorbing some fresh knowledge about a plant that grows only in the fucking Australian rainforests?”</p><p>You don’t answer my question—another wise choice, as I could do wonders with any fodder you give me right now. Instead, you just stare me down for a long moment before suggesting, “What if I pretend I don’t know you and stand right by the balcony, shouting abuse at you. Would that work?”</p><p>“ . . . maybe. What would you say?”</p><p>“You don’t want to know.”</p><p>“Would you be terribly catty and cruel?”</p><p>“I could, if you wanted me to be.”</p><p>For a moment, I pretend to consider this, then, with a somewhat theatrical flair, slump sideways on the couch until my head is in your lap and you are looking down at me. It’s not the right move, I don’t think. Not right now, not when my thoughts are still tick-ticking away, occupied by this singular idea that refuses to fuck off and die.</p><p>But it’s a fact that I often don’t know what I’m doing until I’ve done it. And truthfully, I need this. The familiar warmth, your stillness.</p><p>We can both pretend as though nothing has changed since that conversation on the plane, yet I’ve not stepped into your personal space as much as I could or generally do, and I’m sure you’ve noticed. Maybe a small part of you has even missed it?</p><p>Your smile as you look down on me almost confirms this, while barely concealing a hint of relief. Back to normal, we’re okay, a blip in the system. Back to normal. They’ll be handing me my Oscar any day now.</p><p>“Be gentle with me, Edge,” I say, and you already are. Rubbing my arm, not shoving me away when you could. “Be kind. I might crumble into dust otherwise.”</p><p>“Because of your emotional pain?”</p><p>“It’s a good reason,” I insist, though it’s not the only one.</p><p>In response, you offer another smile, then reach for the remote. I don’t sit up, and you don’t push me away. Back to normal. Look at us, doing what we’ve always done. And look at you, being so gentle with me still. Not complaining as I shift, trying to find the most comfortable position. Patting me on the shoulder once I’ve settled. Leaving your hand to rest against my chest as your attention turns toward the television to stay. It’s how it’s happened in the past, there’s nothing of note to be found here.</p><p>You don’t push me away.</p><p>It’s not a documentary you’ve landed on, but a black and white film. I don’t recognize it, though I know Hepburn and Tracy. They’re not enough to hold my attention for too long, however, try as I might. And I do try, for a few minutes, before closing my eyes. It’s not sleep I’m after, nor a lesser form of it, but something akin to peace. I can feel you breathing, the warmth of your body. Calm.</p><p>When I open my eyes next, I expect you to be engrossed in the film. But you’re not looking at the television at all. You’re not even on the same planet, I don’t think. I can’t read your expression from this angle, nor would I likely be able to if we were face to face. I can follow your eyeline well enough, though.</p><p>You’re staring. Worrying your lip as you study a part of me that usually doesn’t get a look-in when it comes to you. I think it might be my thighs. I think there’s a chance you’re looking a touch higher. And I have absolutely no earthly clue how to react. But for a moment, I wonder.</p><p>Are you checking me out, or simply disassociating as you do so well? It must be the latter. Earth to Edge, come back to me so I know for sure.</p><p>And you do, although it takes longer than I thought it might. I almost shift to get your attention. I do nothing and watch you carefully, appreciating the angle, the warmth I’m suddenly feeling within my own skin. I hope it doesn’t become physically obvious. What would you do if it did? We’ll never know. Abruptly, you blink away, shaking your head as though you’ve just awoken from a dream.</p><p>I don’t dare ask what you were thinking about. I’m not sure I’d handle it well if you awkwardly answered <em>nothing</em>. You might end up staring at me just like that in my own dreams tonight if you did. There’s a chance you will anyway. Instead, when you glance down at me, I simply smile, and you respond in kind.</p><p>“I thought you were dozing,” you say.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>That smile of your shifts as you glance at the television, clearing your throat before returning your attention my way. “Hungry?”</p><p>“Don’t make me get up, The Edge.”</p><p>“Fine,” you concede, and for a moment, it looks to be the end of it. “But I’m a little peckish myself, in case you were interested.”</p><p>“Twenty more minutes.”</p><p>With a slight grin, you say, “I’m counting down,” and you do, alternating between watching the television and your watch, your hand still resting on my chest. I’m tempted to grab it, interlace my fingers in yours. </p><p>I’ve always thought the duty of love is to comprehend the potential of others. I had you clocked from that very first day. I saw then who you could become with the right push. And I’m almost certain I know your path from here, how your talent will continue to grow, the man you’re destined to be. It’s only good things, Edge. That’s all it can ever be with you. The personification of decency, of love.</p><p>If I took your hand in mine right now, you wouldn’t stop me. Because you are decent, and patient, and you do adore me in your own special way. You wouldn’t stop me. </p><p>“Time’s up, B.”</p><p>It’s after midnight when I call home, early in Dublin—often a good time for a quick check-in, right before the girls come to life and Ali can still breathe.</p><p>“I had a dream about you,” she says, her voice slept in, sweet, transporting me right there into the bed with her. “Extremely vivid.”</p><p>“I hope it was a good dream.”</p><p>“It always is. Well, almost always.”</p><p>“I seem to remember you once dreaming about hitting me with your car.”</p><p>“They can’t always be winners, baby.”</p><p>“I wish they were.”</p><p>She laughs, then begins her explanation. “You were home, playing with the girls. Just playing while I was in the kitchen trying to bake, but we had no milk or eggs. It was one of those dreams, you know, boring yet designed to get the heart racing. Oh, and I was pregnant.”</p><p>“Fuck me. Really?”</p><p>“Just a dream, B, settle down.”</p><p>“Sometimes dreams are omens.”</p><p>“I thought you wanted another baby.”</p><p>“Don’t start now, you know I do," I insist. "But eventually. It’s all about the timing, love, give us a chance to breathe. Give <em>you</em> a chance to breathe. And for me to, you know, not have prior commitments planned for the immediate and extended future.”</p><p>“Noted.” She’s smiling. I don’t have to be there to know, it’s in her voice, her words. “And I do support your thinking here, don’t worry. But enough about that, where was I?"</p><p>"Baking, or trying to."</p><p>"Right. So the four of us piled all into the car because supplies were needed, but instead we drove to the beach.”</p><p>“Which beach?”</p><p>“Our beach. Killiney.”</p><p>“We drove? Why did we drive instead of walking? That’s precious time being wasted right there, honey.”</p><p>“It was a dream, B.”</p><p>“Right,” I mutter after a well-timed pause. “A very good point. Go on.”</p><p>“Well, that’s it, I think. We were on the beach, you had Evie in your arms, the two of you laughing and it was just . . . it was nice.”</p><p>“Sounds like an absolute dream, if you’ll excuse the pun,” I say, causing her to laugh once more. It’s a sound that’s needed, that brings forth a small serving of guilt. I was considering holding your hand this evening, Edge, for reasons that were not so innocent. I’m still thinking about it, yet here I am, talking to the missus like it’s a normal day. “You’re getting on alright then?”</p><p>“Mmm, yes. I think so. The girls miss you.”</p><p>“I miss the girls.”</p><p>“Their mother misses you.”</p><p>“I miss their mother too.”</p><p>“I’ve been thinking about you, actually.”</p><p>“I’m glad to hear that,” I say flatly. If ever there was a time to feel the love . . . “It’s much more preferable than you <em>not</em> thinking about me at all when I’m not there.”</p><p>“Well, I do have a lot to occupy my thoughts,” Ali teases. “Life isn’t always about you, but you do get a look in from time to time.”</p><p>“Go on then, twist that knife a little more, Ali, you know I can take it.”</p><p>“That’s kind of related to what I’ve been thinking about. What you might take.”</p><p>She’s lost me, though not entirely. There is one scenario coming to mind. “You know if you actually stab me, love, there’s a good chance they’ll send you to jail, even if I did have it coming.”</p><p>“Shockingly, I’m not looking to murder you.”</p><p>“A sizeable number of murders aren’t premeditated, yet they happen anyway.”</p><p>“Are you still curious?” she asks instead of playing along, forcing the conversation in an entirely new direction so quickly I’m left scrambling.</p><p>“I—what?”</p><p>“That’s what I’ve been thinking about since we last spoke.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because you were curious enough to ask, to learn—”</p><p>“Ali—”</p><p>“—what it’s like. For me.”</p><p>“I was just trying to understand.”</p><p>“No, I know you,” she says, the God’s honest truth. If I were home, she would be staring right into my soul as she said this. If I were home, we would have already discussed this topic by now. She might even have figured a few other things out. “It’s more than that.” Maybe she already has. “And if you were still interested, then I was thinking when you come home, there might be a few things we could try. Things I could do for you. In the bedroom.”</p><p>“. . . what?”</p><p>“I mean, I doubt it would be the same as having someone inside of you, you know, what us women experience . . . what <em>I</em> experience, B, but I figure it might be worth a try if you’re still curious.”</p><p>For a moment, I can’t speak. My mouth has gone dry, the words have tumbled out of my brain. My fucking wife is on the other side of the world, discussing <em>this</em> before she’s even had breakfast. “You don’t . . . love, you don’t have to do that.”</p><p>“Why not? Maybe I want to.”</p><p>“Do you?”</p><p>“It could be fun, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Honey, I just . . .” I trail off, not knowing what else to say. It’s a far more preferable conversation than the one I’m terrified she and I might have at some point in the future—that I think we’ve almost had once or twice, after your name was raised—and I love her, I fucking <em>adore</em> her giving heart. But I still was not prepared to discuss this right now. Nor come up with a way to explain it without <em>explaining</em> it.</p><p>What can I say? Thank you, my love, but I’m more interested in the connection, the gifting of control to another person, another man (you) than the actual act being discussed? I can only imagine how that would go down before she’s had her cereal. Or at all.</p><p>“It could be fun,” she reiterates after a short silence, her tone turning a little sly. “You’ve always said you liked my fingers.”</p><p>“Oh, Jesus.”</p><p>“Or I could buy a couple of things. Some toys for you. For us.”</p><p>“Ali, it’s—it’s fine, really,” I insist, because it is. Admittedly, I’m slightly intrigued by the mention of her gorgeous fingers, but not quite as jazzed at the thought of anything manufactured. They lack a beating heart, that warmth I love, for one thing. “I was just curious, that’s all.”</p><p>“Okay,” she says, sounding like she doesn’t believe me. “If you change your mind, though, it’s there on the table.”</p><p>I can’t help it; I have to laugh. Why, I couldn’t fucking tell even myself. Thankfully, she joins in, though I can hear her thinking <em>men</em> from the other side of the world. “You know I love you, right?”</p><p>“Yes,” she replies sweetly, “I did know that.”</p><p>We leave it there, her starting the day, me finishing mine. I climb into bed, still wired, still thinking about my astounding missus, but only for so long.</p><p>And it’s then that the guilt returns, as my thoughts turn from her fingers to yours, to ours. Me, taking your hand in mine there on the couch, and dragging it down, right down until you get the hint. You wouldn’t stop me, of course. That’s how these fantasies go. You wouldn’t stop me at all. A smile on your face, your elegant fingers deftly undoing my pants and slipping underneath thin cotton to touch, to grasp.</p><p>It’s determined to stay, The Edge, that guilt, but I’m forever lacking in the art of self-control.</p><p>“B,” you whisper, your touch gentle yet flawless, your voice needy. If I turn my head just so, shift back a little, draw down your fly, I can take you in my mouth, and I do, and you say my name again, then <em>baby, baby</em> as I take you deeper, right before you pull me away.</p><p>But it’s pause, not stop, a chance for you to manhandle me as you like—as we like—until you have me right where you want me, beneath you there on the couch, naked now, and it’s your fingers, not hers. You’re in control, it’s you that has me, your fingertips digging into my thighs now, holding them up, <em>baby</em>, that look in your eyes, the way you’re biting your lip, your moan, love, your moan. <em>Come inside me</em>, I beg like some debauched whore and you will, you will, you’ll do whatever you fucking want to me.</p><p>I don’t sleep after, not for a long while, my chest still heaving slightly as I clean myself up, the guilt lingering, bringing a friend along for the ride.  It’s not pure despair but possesses enough elements to make its mark. An ache within that has no business existing.</p><p>How many years have I gotten through without needing anything in return from you? It might be all of them, Edge. Since that very first day in Larry’s kitchen. That’s over a decade of managing just fine.</p><p>I don’t need this; I don’t want it (who am I kidding?). What would happen if I let it slip to you? I’ve already looked at the possibilities from so many angles, and yet . . .</p><p>You should tell me no. That’s all there is to it. No matter how I try to justify it, that is the only outcome I should reach. It’s not love, lust nor curiosity on your end. You weren’t checking me out tonight. Staring into space, nothing more. I know this, I do, just as I know you should tell me no. And maybe you even would, if I brought it up, or perhaps you would say yes in your eternal bid to put me first. It’s hard to know. I’m not eager to find out, not now.</p><p>I’m unsure how I might handle that gentle rejection. I know leading you down a path you’ve never once considered travelling would be even worse.</p><p>Perhaps it is despair in its purest form. But it’ll pass. It must, if I’m to keep myself from having that second midlife crisis. A blip in the system, a new distraction in a sea of interference. To exist in this world is to make countless choices each and every day, to force yourself forward instead of being caught and dragged under.</p><p>It will pass.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Cracks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I told you we drank the fucking bar last night, and I suppose, in a way, we almost did. But I wasn’t as drunk as I could have been.</p><p>Oh, I was completely done, don’t get me wrong, but it could have been far worse. I still had my wits about me, unlike you. You, who danced with a vision in a red dress at a gay bar, not realizing it was a beautiful man named Steven, and likely not even caring. You, who stumbled out of the bar and almost tripped over nothing, who had the decency to slip around the corner and piss against the fence out of sight as I attempted to chastise you while losing my fucking mind. And you, who laughed along with me, who held on to me until we got back to our room, and then turned my world completely upside down.</p><p>But before that, it was the three of us on the hunt in San Francisco, having somehow escaped our little protective world.</p><p>It could only ever happen in numbers these days. At least, it felt that way. Lord knows I’ve tried my hardest to flee on foot while flying solo, especially recently, though I never get very far. However, there’s something about Adam that’s seemingly trustworthy. I’ve no idea why. Sometimes, he’s just as bad as I am. Worse. And so are you. Maybe not worse, but I know how you can get from time to time, you dirty dog, and so do they.</p><p>And yet we managed to find ourselves loose in the wild, having promised to be home by midnight, Mum and Dad—a complete lie, as it happened. It wasn’t my fault, though. I didn’t think, anyway. Who could even remember?</p><p>All I know is that there was a touch of whiskey involved during the day, which might have helped influence you and Adam into for once trusting me to be the navigator. Of sorts. I’ll be the first to admit that’s rarely a good idea, though I do try, I swear. And it worked out in the end. I successfully navigated our way towards that fucking home from <em>Full House</em> after a fair amount of joyriding around the great city. Or rather, Adam held the map and got us lost and found while I dealt with the weight of remembering a single address. But it still went swimmingly. I even made you laugh.</p><p>You laughed so much last night, The Edge. I can make you laugh a lot in general, so it wasn’t like it was a rarity. But it’s still nice to hear. To make happen. Every fucking time.</p><p>And you laughed again, after a few uncertain seconds, when we stormed the grounds of the Four Seasons last minute and found only two rooms available. Not very fucking VIP treatment, but I’m not one to insist on coddling like some kind of spoiled rock star. Not. At. All. (Although maybe sometimes . . .) Even when faced with the prospect of sharing a king-sized bed with you. <em>Especially</em> when presented with the opportunity, as life-ruining as that may be.</p><p>It remains a complex issue, but I’m a simple man. I take simple pleasures whenever I can. Shamefully, silently, remarkably frivolously. My uncertainty brawling with an unexpected sense of elation, the latter overpowering it on the external front and partly on the internal at the thought of you so close, so warm in my bed.  </p><p>Shockingly, it has not passed like I hoped it might, but in the past week or so I began suspecting that maybe, <em>maybe</em> I might be able to get a fair grip and see it through. To reach a point where I can spend a few hours in the same bed as you and sleep soundly without wondering, overthinking, longing. Or not become immediately hopeful when I catch you looking at me out the corner of my eye.</p><p>You’re just glancing my way like you always have, that’s all, studying me because that’s what you do. As though I’m a cipher that needs decoding, even as I wear my heart on my sleeve (mostly, <em>mostly</em>).</p><p>I was still excitable as we set off to one bar, and then another, where you became loud and clingy, following me around, allowing me to hold onto your wrist as if we were fearful of losing each other. Holding on until I had to let you go. A dance, a vision in a red dress. You, having fun, me, doing something along those lines while missing your touch, my thumb against your pulse.</p><p>It was the mixing of drinks that did me in, in the end. I can handle a number of different combinations, but not that many. Whiskey, vodka, beer, maybe some tequila, definitely something else. What the hell was I thinking? I only had myself to blame as I lurched against the toilet a few hours later, half-asleep even as I expelled a fucking demon. And you, seedy you who had barely finished kneeling in front of the throne yourself, took pity on me, helping me get the smallest portion of my life together, handing me my toothbrush, holding me up as I pissed. I don’t think it was needed, but I accepted the help all the same.</p><p>I like to be independent, Edge, to pretend I can get through this world on my own, but we both know a part of me craves that attention, that coddling. That constant acknowledgement.</p><p>And you continued to take pity on me a few hours later, after we dragged our arses out of the hotel and began our journey back to Sacramento, leaving San Francisco in the dust. You, who looked like hell yourself, who bought me a coffee, cranked down my window and shuffled me into the backseat like I was a sick child—and, really, I was, in part. Pretty fucking hungover, in fact, but it could have been worse. It <em>had</em> been worse in the past, so fucking worse. But it caused you and Adam to leave me alone, and that was something. A good thing, as well as bad, allowing me to think in silence, to wonder, to perhaps overthink—your forte, usually, and also potentially dangerous.</p><p>Here I am, hungover me in the backseat, an unsuspecting yet busy little lump.</p><p>The incredible thing about sunglasses is that they hide the shadows, the faults, and also a fair amount of intense staring. Which I’m partaking in now, directed your way, as I think back to the night before, or rather the early hours of today. It’s fuzzy around the edges, here and there. Some parts might even have been lifted entirely. But I clearly recall what’s important. I don’t think even alcohol could take that away from me. The way you laughed, so hard, so loopy that I wondered if you’d remember any of it.</p><p>I don’t think you do. You don’t have that uncertain look on your face. You’ve not said a damn thing all day that gave me a single hint.</p><p>Do you remember laughing as you considered our king-sized bed once again? <em>Ours</em>, The Edge, the two of us sharing—so very funny after too many, apparently, and then not funny at all. Your laughter stopping as you turned your attention toward me, as you stepped closer, looking me up and down, looking at me like you might have said yes if I posed a particular question, your gaze pausing at my leather pants. Another potentially dangerous pastime.</p><p>I couldn’t sleep in them, you decided for me, explaining your viewpoint in far too many words, a couple of rambling sentences that somehow made sense in the end.</p><p>And then you clutched my hips. You don’t remember that either, I’m sure of it. Your fingers digging into my body, your hands grazing my arse, sliding against my thighs, fumbling towards my fly as you pressed up against me, breathing your whiskey breath so fucking closely, biting your lip, looking like you never had in my presence before. Leaving me completely dumbfounded, frozen. Maybe something more. And perhaps it is a little fuzzy here, the seconds skip-skipping by, blurring until you shoved me back, right back against the mattress before following me down, as graceful as a seal flopping onto a rock, knocking the wind out of me, you giggling, then falling as silent as I already was.</p><p>You kissed me last night, Edge. You did. A pretty average kiss, if I’m to be honest, though I think you did alright considering the state of things. It was very wet, but it was a kiss, one that I returned without thinking, that kept on going and finally ended when you again attempted to open my pants before giving up the struggle, rolling off me. Dragging yourself away, mumbling something as you went, as you shuffled up against the pillows, where you fell asleep like a cheap fucking date. Leaving me right where you’d wanted me, wondering what the fuck just happened.</p><p>I’m still wondering, still shocked about it, and thrilled and slightly nauseous and definitely freaking out, though you don’t even fucking know. About anything. Because I have these sunglasses, and you, you are completely ignorant for once in your life.</p><p>It’s not really fair, I don’t think, to hope that it’ll come back to you. Not when you did such a fine job of getting yourself that pissed in the first place. You <em>earned</em> that selective memory, if that’s what has happened. And it must be. You can hide a lot from me, but not the type of uncertainty this would arouse.</p><p>It’s also not fair that you have recovered so well, but that’s not really what’s important here. It’s just how it goes. Somewhere along the way, I honed the ability to drink more than you and stay somewhat coherent and alert. Meanwhile, you drink nearly as much yet lose the night far earlier, then come out somehow on top.</p><p>It’s because you are not human, I imagine, while I am a mere mortal in your presence. But I knew that about us already.</p><p>By the grace of God, we get back and make it through the show. My voice is a little shot and you are a distraction, looking like you’ve never even heard of alcohol in your life, much less touched it during the past twenty-four hours, but we still make it through.</p><p>To think, there are people out there who don’t believe in miracles.</p><p>As we come off stage and are loaded into our cars like expensive pandas, however, you do appear tired—a sign you may be experiencing some negative effects, although I doubt most would notice these things. You are definitely not human. I, on the other hand, feel as though I’m leaking from my pores, in more ways than one.</p><p>I know you don’t love me like I do you, but after last night, after the boggling experience of it all, there seems a slight possibility that a part of you wants into my pants. Whether it’s a conscious thought or something deeper, I can’t be sure.</p><p>All I know is you kissed me. It’s devastatingly intense to consider, and if I’m not careful, the thought of it could almost make me do a number of stupid things. You slipped your tongue between my lips and moaned into my mouth. You felt me up, a step away from exposing me to an audience of one. That’s not something that just happens for shits and giggles, no matter how drunk, at least not in my experience anyway. I should know—I am a professional drinker, as are many of my friends. As are you. You, who has never pulled such a move before, that I can remember.</p><p>Did our conversation about James gradually awaken some subconscious notion within you, or is this something new? Or am I utterly misguided about the whole fucking thing?</p><p>I think it’s fair to say I have a number of questions for you. And despite your silent yet obvious determination to fall into bed almost immediately, I follow you into your suite and call room service. Your response to this is to shake your head, an action I’ve rarely taken as objection coming from you, then head off to shower. Leaving me with my thoughts as I wait for my fries and for you to be delivered into this very room.</p><p>I’m not going to ask you outright. Not about the kiss, nor if you would consider it, consider <em>me</em>. If you would say yes to fucking me. It would be potentially dangerous, as well as idiotic, to do so.</p><p>No, the safer path in uncovering a few of these uncertainties is to offer a half-truth. You know about James, you know I was curious—and I’m sure you’ve wondered in the month since discussing it whether I still am, because I know you. If I confirm your plausible suspicions, if I tell you I’ve been thinking about it, considering taking it further . . . well, where’s the harm in that? I’ll be able to gauge your reaction, see what happens. It’s not manipulative. I don’t think.</p><p>And perhaps you’ll be jealous of my fictional future lover. Perhaps you’ll offer yourself up freely without even being asked.</p><p>You won’t, you won’t. But what if you did?</p><p>My fries arrive, and then so do you, clad in a towel that is removed right in front of my very eyes—a move that is completely unremarkable and incredibly common, yet recently has become utterly life-ruining.</p><p>I can’t help myself; I watch you as you shift through the room, heading to rifle through your suitcase for a pair of underwear. After all this time, I know your body well enough to accurately depict it within my mind, my fantasies, although there’s one aspect I’ve had to develop myself.</p><p>The difference between flaccid and hard . . . it can be fairly tricky to predict sometimes. Not that I’ve had too much experience in witnessing this phenomenon in other men. A few questionable films, some instances of strolling through a door at the wrong time. I’ve even walked in on you once or twice, but you were either under the covers or angled in such a way I couldn’t catch a glimpse.</p><p><em>Catch a glimpse</em>. Like I was some pervert. Fucking hell.</p><p>It might not be far from the truth, however. I watch you, shamed yet unstoppable as I attempt to visualize a fabricated image onto the real thing. And when you catch me looking, I keep my gaze steady, certain it’ll be worse if I rush to glance away. You’d know if I did. You’d have my number and then where would we be?</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” I reply like it’s the truth, then shove a handful of fries in my mouth.</p><p>You’re not entirely satisfied with this response, though you don’t say as much. I watch you pull on underwear and a white bathrobe, my disappointment and relief working in tandem at the sight. When you sit down next to me, I’m barely ready for it. For this reason, you’re able to steal the bowl from my hands without a fight. No, that’s not the only reason.</p><p>If it came down to it, if we were doomed to starve to death, I would give you all the food I had, even if it meant you only lived a few minutes more than me.</p><p>“Did you only get one bowl?”</p><p>“I can call for some more.”</p><p>You shake your head, saying, “I’m not really hungry,” as you fish out the last of the fries. I watch you chew, unable to do anything else, gnawing on my thumbnail as you suck the salt from your fingers, your throat working as you swallow. Love, you’re going to be the end of me one day. “What is it, Bono?”</p><p>I shrug, my confidence reverting into the shadows, the ground suddenly becoming incredibly interesting. You’re not impressed by my silence, which is understandable—neither am I. This is not the plan. I had a whole thing prepared, but now here we are. You, getting up and walking out the room with an empty bowl, and me, still with my thumb between my lips. This was not the plan at all.</p><p>It takes a few minutes, but I manage to drag my arse off the bed. You’re on the couch watching television, seemingly engrossed, although you neither protest nor appear surprised when I pick up the remote and mute the set.</p><p>“I’ve been thinking,” I rush out before the words again do a runner. You rub your eye in response, looking exhausted yet smelling so clean, so <em>you</em>. If I stretched out right now, put my head in your lap, what would be your response? I could breathe you in better that way. I could wait for your hand to grow comfortable against my chest before lacing our fingers together, making my move.</p><p>“What have you been thinking, Bono?”</p><p>If only you knew, The Edge.</p><p>“You remember when we had that discussion about the man in the men’s toilet?” I ask instead, and you drop your hand from your face to stare. “The one that wanted to fuck me?” As if you’d somehow forgotten.</p><p>“I remember.”</p><p>You haven’t glanced away. The line of your jaw, the way your fingers shift in your lap . . . I’m thinking all sorts of mad shit right now. This <em>also</em> was not the plan. Suddenly, I’m painfully uncomfortable, for a couple of reasons. Shifting in my seat, biting my tongue just in time to keep from saying what I really want to say. From mentioning your name and mine together, with a suggestion tacked on. “I’ve been thinking about that, you know. Quite a lot.”</p><p>“Thinking about it how, exactly?”</p><p>The laughter bubbles out of me unexpectedly, causing your expression to become a little alarmed. When I begin wringing my hands together—also unexpected, and unwanted on my part—your lips part, as though you want to ask those three magic words: <em>are you okay?</em></p><p>I’m not. But you don’t need to know that. “You said I could tell you anything. This is me telling—”</p><p>“Wait.” That alarm has shifted into something I don’t appreciate. “Is that why you took us to the gay bar last night?” you ask, having the decency to appear faintly remorseful when I start shaking my head, giving you a look that I hope (and think) lands. “I mean—”</p><p>“That was just fun, Edge. And we had fun, didn’t we?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, we did. B, look—”</p><p>“But I’ve been picturing it ever since Boston,” I cut in, determined to get us back on track. To lay it all out before I either lose my nerve or blurt out something I’m not supposed to, as is my way. “I know I said it was just a small thought, but it’s the smallest thoughts which tend to grow until they won’t be ignored. And I’ve tried to, believe me. You have no idea how hard I’ve tried.”</p><p>“Okay, okay.” You reach out to squeeze my shoulder, smiling that reassuring way of yours. It’s only then that I realize I might have been talking slightly faster than usual. I take a deep breath and find myself completely unchanged. Wonderful.</p><p>“I never imagined being unfaithful to Ali,” I admit when the silence becomes too much. You frown at this, looking as though you want to ask. I would understand if you did. I think it’s only fair to consider my wife during such times. You don’t speak up, though. You just continue staring at me, waiting for more. “I never thought I’d want to be. But I just keep fantasizing—”</p><p>“Fantasizing?” Your tone is sharper than I expected. “When? About him?”</p><p>Don’t do that, The Edge. Don’t make me reconsider all that mad shit by questioning this whole thing so abruptly. You sound almost slighted by James, although I doubt it’s jealousy at play.</p><p>If only you knew the truth. Another laugh tumbles out of me, this time sounding faintly bitter. If only you knew I’d barely thought about James in a month. That I’d considered him only once in the bedroom, and even then, he hadn’t seen it through to the end.</p><p>“I just want to know what it feels like, Edge. Just once.” <em>Once</em>. It’s the word of the day, it seems.</p><p>“Okay.” You lick your lips, contemplating this. It’s a sight I don’t need to see right now, yet I drink it in all the same. Death of me, Edge. You. It’s how it's going to happen in the end. And I won’t be sorry, not in the least. There are far worse ways to meet one’s maker. “Jesus, Bono, I had planned to come back to my room and sleep for twelve hours. I wasn’t ready for <em>this</em> conversation.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s alright.” You run your hand through your damp hair, turning your attention to me. Studying me, up and down. My sleek pants, my shirt. I don’t know what you’re thinking. I doubt it’s sexual, yet it still completely destroys me. I almost lean in. I very nearly blurt the whole thing out. Our eyes meet, and my resolve unravels somehow even more. “So, you’re going to do this?”</p><p>“I hope so.”</p><p>“ . . . with who? I mean, you’re famous, B. Word would get around.”</p><p>I smile without meaning to. It’s weak, but it’s a smile. “I told you, Edge.” The words slip out—another thing I don’t intend yet happens anyway. It’s a mistake. I’m making a mistake. But when you look at me like you want to understand, to know me, through and through . . . when you look at me like that, love . . . “It would have to be someone who I know. And who knows me.”</p><p>It’s not the plan, and I’m definitely not okay. Shamed, sick to my stomach, certain what’s coming even before you tell me no. That’s it. I’ve really fucked it up this time, haven’t I? You’re staring at me, your expression unreadable, but I know. I have to look away. There’s no way in hell I can both hear and see the rejection. It’s one or the other. It’s that or I completely crumble.</p><p>“Bono, I can’t,” you say finally, and I nod. “It’s too much.”</p><p>I nod once more, and silence falls between us. What did I expect? This is exactly why I didn’t ask outright. This is why I had a plan. And even with that plan, this was still the probable outcome. The odds were against me, against us.</p><p>You kissed me last night, but people kiss each other all the time without following through, without it meaning a goddamn thing. What the fuck did I expect?</p><p>I’m leaning forward before I know it, my hands coming up to cover my mouth. Whether it's to keep from crying, screaming or vomiting, I have no earthly clue.</p><p>Five minutes. That’s all it took. Five minutes to fuck this up between us, this connection I need like oxygen, and who is to blame? You’re at my side, looking completely lost, unsure of what to do. It’s not your fault. It never could be. Five minutes. You’ll see me differently now. You’ll <em>be</em> different. And the band . . . it’s not them I want to think about right now, but us.</p><p><em>Us</em>, Edge. Where will this take us? Will you eventually figure it out, realize my truth? What’s our future now?</p><p>Abruptly, you make a choice, one that I’m eternally grateful for, that makes me want to shove you away. I can’t do this, I need it more than you’ll likely ever know. A walking contradiction, that's me.</p><p>You wrap your arm around my shoulders, and I bury my face into your bathrobe, breathing you in, swallowing back a rush of emotion that burns my sinuses, blurs my vision. “Can we just pretend like I never said anything?”</p><p>“Sure,” you reply.</p><p>I smile against your chest, not because I want to. I’m hoping you feel it, sense my cheeks shift against your body. That it will convince you I’m completely fine, so don’t worry about me. In fact, don’t think of it at all. But you will. I know you too well to believe otherwise, no matter how much I want to. This will keep you up at night. This will cause a change in you. In us.</p><p>“Liar.”</p><p>It doesn’t garner a verbal response. Instead, you just hug me tighter.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Some days, I find the fuse between calm and fury to be frightfully short, the one distancing anguish and anger even shorter.</p><p>I’m working on it. I have been for a long time now, though it does often feel like I’m running to stand still—a title I can apply to multiple facets of existence, yet would never do so out loud in present day, as it might sound as though I’m trying to resurrect some hype for a five-year-old track.</p><p>You hugged me as I left your suite last night. I could barely look at you, but I leaned into your body all the same. It was only anguish that stuck around once I was safe in my own bed, although there came a point during the night where I simply felt numb. Which is, really, all one could hope for at a time like this.</p><p>Whatever happened, however you reacted to this need of mine, I was fully prepared for me to be affected. Either way, win or lose.</p><p>It was a long enough drive from San Francisco to Sacramento, plenty of time to think once the shock of it all had lessened. In my mind, I considered a number of questions you might have—some of which I also wanted answering. <em>How would this change our relationship, if we did fuck?</em> It couldn’t ruin it. I believed that. I <em>clung</em> to it. It couldn’t. It might even bring us closer together. <em>Don’t ask me how</em>, I imagined myself telling you, and you let it slide. You believed me.</p><p>Both you and Ali worked out years ago how to manipulate me, in a strictly emotional sense, if only to stop me from doing something stupid. To keep me from ending up hurt. Apparently, neither of you trust that I know where the line is or realize when there’s trouble bearing my name brewing on the horizon. And you may be right.</p><p>But I often don’t really think it’s important, how my own feelings will be affected. I can lie, manipulate myself into believing one answer would be enough to satisfy you, Edge. <em>Don’t ask me how, but it’ll bring us closer, so why </em>not<em> fuck me?</em> And I can rush into it, win or lose, and be fine with getting hurt, as long as you made it through unscathed.</p><p>There’s that business of love. A tricky thing to consider. To manoeuvre when it’s one-sided and sex is involved, but only for a short while. Someone always ends up hurt, yet you’ve called me one strong motherfucker in the past, and it’s the truth (mostly).</p><p>I would have made it through in the end, having experienced it, having known what it was like. Able to keep that memory alive, use it when it’s needed. It might even have allowed me to knock it out of my system, move on and let the whole thing slide back to where it once was.</p><p>A sense of love that wasn’t pressing, wasn’t urgent. Transcendence without the need for sex, spiritual without the cock.</p><p>I can lie to myself. I can do so many things when left to my own devices. Overthink like you do. Tear myself in two. Pick up the phone in the middle of the night and begin to dial, then slam the receiver down before making the call. Fabricate the conversation anyway, and so many more between us, one especially that makes its mark.</p><p><em>It’ll be okay, this won’t change a thing</em>, you tell me over and over, your mouth pressed close to my ear. <em>I’m not going anywhere.</em> But it’s only my own creation.</p><p>And in the morning, when you don’t say a fucking thing to me, when you avoid me until you no longer can, I’m almost certain that imagined conversation of mine is complete bullshit.</p><p>It’s a personal element I so often resent, that short fuse between grief and fury. My temper drives you three crazy, I know, and I wish it were different. I wish <em>I</em> was different sometimes. But this is who I am, flaws and all. You avoid me, you remain silent, and it begins. Bubbling beneath the surface. An explosion imminent.</p><p>I shouldn’t yell at you. I’ve no right to do so. But I do. Slamming doors and wordless stewing can only tamp it down for so long.</p><p>No miracle happens on stage in Oakland, yet I barely notice my own fuckups. Yours are all I hear, and I doubt even God himself could hold me back from coming for your throat once we’re off stage.</p><p>I’m prepared for a brawl, <em>aching</em> for it, but you bring the whole thing to a standstill with three words I’ve heard so many times before, though rarely from you: “Fuck you, Bono.”</p><p>And just like that, the colour red fades from my vision. You look at me like you’re half-expecting a fist to the face. It’s not going to happen. That red has been replaced by a hazy blue. It’s not going to happen.</p><p>It takes a beat or two for you to realize this, and then you sigh. “Look—”</p><p>“Well done,” I hiss, not knowing what else to say, nor wanting to hear how you might finish that sentence. And then I leave. Out of our dressing room, into a waiting car, quaking beneath the surface, hopefully static to the watchful eye. Nobody talks to me, not until we reach the hotel.</p><p>“You going out, boss?” John asks, looking as though he already knows the answer. I confirm his suspicions with a head shake, and that’s that. He lets me go.</p><p>You’re fond of a shower when you’re tense, while I prefer a bath to soothe my problems away. Tight muscles, tighter heart. A squeezing hand delving into my chest. Those kinds of troubles.</p><p>I dump the entirety of the provided bubble bath into the water then slip in, keeping my head above the surface despite the little voice in my brain telling me otherwise. It’s a different world, down below. Distortion comes easily while clarity keeps its distance. I imagine the latter is far more useful right now, although it’s an absolute <em>bitch</em> to contend with.</p><p>There is one thing I know, that again becomes clear to me even before the bubbles begin to slowly dissipate, and that is I’ve never been the type for extensive wallowing. Yes, I partake, but during times like these, you either get off your arse and keep going or find yourself stuck in a rut with no relief in sight.</p><p>I could stay in this bathtub all night, top up the water when the temperature drops, call for some more bubbles—liquid as well as the drinking variety. And I could avoid you for days (except when it wasn’t possible), or stew in my anger. Lash out when cornered, or when given far too much distance, until it grows and grows, this disturbance between us, and achieves critical mass.</p><p>There comes a moment in all problems, relationship or otherwise, where it reaches the point of no return. When you can no longer fix what was only slightly broken in the very beginning but now has nothing but cracks beneath the surface.</p><p>But if I get in early, if I make my stand, start a dialogue, then maybe I can negotiate our way right out of this. And if I talk long enough, I might even be able to convince you that I’m okay, and <em>we’ll</em> be okay, and there will be no pushing away from either of us. And you won’t one day leave. You won’t focus on the cracks while they’re still there lurking underneath it all.</p><p>I imagine it might take a bigger set of balls than the pair I’ve found myself burdened with tonight, to call with an offer to march into your suite and set things straight.</p><p>Somehow, I manage to do it anyway, with a little help from my old pals, nicotine and Jack Daniel’s.</p><p>You don’t sound angry with me over the phone, just tired and faintly apprehensive. It’s understandable. I’m right there with you, Edge, although affected in a different manner. We were both distracted tonight, after all, but there’s only one child in this group, and it isn’t you.</p><p>All I have in me sometimes are temper tantrums, while you hold on, try for a reasonable approach, and retaliate only when pushed. That <em>fuck you</em> was earned. I don’t want to hear it again, however, not any time soon.</p><p>When you open the door, I discover you’re also clad in a bathrobe and that apprehension is written all over your face. I could linger there at the entrance to your suite. I could sit down on the couch, like you offer. But I don’t.</p><p>I need those few seconds away from you to gather myself, and it’s an absolute certainty that if I head to your bedroom with purpose, you won’t immediately follow. Not tonight. And maybe it’s a bastard move, one that pains me, but it’s necessary. I need these few seconds. That, and a blanket, it seems. I don’t know why. Apparently, it’s cold, though probably not chilly enough to burrow myself beneath thin wool.</p><p>Soon enough, you join me in your bedroom, but not on the bed. Instead, you lean against the wardrobe, crossing your arms as your gaze flickers from me to the window, then back again. Is this what you’ll think of every time we’re together from now on? Even if I mend the cracks tonight, will it be enough to make you forget? Your attention is centred exclusively on the window now. I can barely drag my focus away from the carpet to take you in.</p><p>This is not what I hoped. This is not us at all.</p><p>The silence stretches on, until I reach a point where I’m almost tempted to suffocate myself with this very blanket. You would stop me. It would be one way of getting you to talk, even if it did lead you to calling me a fucking eejit. Actually, I don’t want to hear that, not today. All I’m after is some peace and love from you, Edge.</p><p>I clear my throat, if only to break the silence, then open my mouth to say your name, nothing more. Sometimes I have little else, and just need to hear myself call to you, see your reaction.</p><p>Instead, the words tumble out. An admittance, an explanation of sorts. Not the full story, but enough to label my anger without justification, to describe myself as a fucking child. To bitterly laugh as I say, “I’ve made a mess of it all, haven’t I, The Edge?”</p><p>You ignore my second comment to focus on the first, tiredly insisting I’m not a child. I forever have a love/hate relationship with you stretching the truth to protect my feelings. Today, it barely registers, sounding like a confirmation of the humungous mess I’ve made in our lives. And when I state as much, you finally join me on the bed and make some admittances of your own. Unprofessionalism, distraction, enough to make me smile for the briefest of moments, then glance away, because you insist on staring at me. I wish you wouldn’t—a sentence I’ve rarely thought in your presence.</p><p>It’s only when you say, “Shit happens,” that I turn and face you, surprised and amazed. You have me laughing, you wanker, even if I’m not sure why. It’s all just so ludicrous. I came here expecting God knows what—a fight for friendship, a repeated plea for us to forget all about what’s been said, that sort of thing.</p><p>Instead, you’re telling me shit happens. That’s how you’re choosing to deal with this. It doesn’t quite seem real. And when you add, “We’ve made it through worse,” it almost feels far too easy.</p><p>Doubt is an officious motherfucker. But then, so am I. Perhaps that’s why I clash with it so often? I’m not sure we have made it through worse. I’m not sure this is or should be the end of it. I imagined something bigger. Fireworks.</p><p>But there you are, looking at me like you always have. Calm, curious. A hint of worry in place. You’ve always been so protective of me, though I’m not sure you realize, and a lot of the times it doesn’t register even with me.</p><p>You’re looking at me as if nothing really has changed, and I feel as though I could self-combust, just from that steady stare.</p><p>“I love you, you know,” I say because I have to, and your gaze faintly wavers.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“Not in that way,” I backtrack—lie—because your gaze faintly wavered.</p><p>“I know that too,” you reply, a response that stings, that causes me to try out an easy smile and begin to babble until you stop me dead, simply by saying my name.</p><p>When I apologize, I’m expecting a hug. It doesn’t come. That, I think, stings even more. You do crack a joke, force out a laugh from me, and cause me to shove you, but it’s just not the same, is it?</p><p>Dangerous territory, The Edge. I can see it in the rear-view mirror as I creep closer and closer toward obsession, rampant infatuation. It doesn’t matter, though. I won’t be pulling over. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. In Full Bloom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We’ve left the States behind and claimed British Columbia as our new homeland, a fact which excites me while also bringing forth a sense of apprehension. It’s not long now. I can almost smell the sea breeze of Killiney if I close my eyes and concentrate, hear the stairs creak as Ali tries to take it slow while carrying our sleeping baby upstairs. In three short days, we’ll be home.</p>
<p>I’m already missing your constant presence in my life.</p>
<p>It’s the hazy guilt that comes from thinking this—and a few other things concerning you—when we’re so close to Dublin that causes me to pick up the phone. The time difference hopefully means the girls are asleep (unless Ali is having a tough night of it, a thought which brings forth more guilt than certain fantasies do, yet shouldn’t). Thankfully, they are, with Ali even sounding impossibly bright after playing the part of two parents.</p>
<p>“Missing me?” she teases, her voice like pure honey, causing a section of my brain to vacate its home and head south.</p>
<p>I imagine phone sex, us discussing plausible activities we might do my first night back home, talking each other off like it’s just as good as the real thing. Yet there you are still, occupying a corner of my mind, The Edge, even now. While I’m speaking to the most beautiful girl I know, the only woman to hold my heart.</p>
<p>There must be something wrong with me.</p>
<p>“Always,” I reply, then break into a half-hearted and, frankly, terrible Elvis impression to sing a few lines from ‘Always On My Mind’.</p>
<p>It causes her to laugh, though not for long. “How have you been keeping?”</p>
<p>“You know me.”</p>
<p>“I do, I do,” she says, then sighs. It’s not how I wanted this conversation to go. The heat in her tone—something I can sense even thousands of miles away—has turned contemplative, analytical. I’d much rather she discuss my penis than my general wellbeing, but do I have a say in this? It’s unlikely, given past experiences. “You sound blue, baby.”</p>
<p>“I’ve said all of five words and sang the rest.”</p>
<p>“I’m aware.”</p>
<p>She leaves it at that, three syllables, enough to shine a light on our entire relationship, the intimacy of being known, through and through. I listen to her breathe, searching for a sign that tells me she’s figured it out. As is often the case, however, a part of her continues to elude me.</p>
<p>“Just missing my girls, is all.”</p>
<p>“I’ve no doubt.”</p>
<p>“So, what are you wearing?” I ask before another thoughtful pause can happen. I'm determined to get this show back on track, anything to draw the attention away from where it’s not wanted. She laughs again, this time a little longer.</p>
<p>“Pyjamas, strangely enough.”</p>
<p>“That’s incredibly erotic to imagine, honey.”</p>
<p>“I thought you’d like that. While we’re on the subject, what are <em>you</em> wearing?”</p>
<p>“Leather, from head to toe,” I answer, ignoring the black jeans and printed t-shirt I’m currently clad in. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.</p>
<p>“Strangely enough.”</p>
<p>“We’re both extremely predictable, aren’t we?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, sometimes you manage to surprise me. Although not often.”</p>
<p>“I have my moments,” I say, aiming for casual, my voice instead coming out slightly squeezed. You’re still on my mind. I wonder if that would surprise her. An obsession, that thought. Her, you, the notion of that line blurring too much, becoming too obvious. </p>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Something’s bothering you.”</p>
<p>I shake my head, an automatic reflex that naturally accomplishes nothing over the phone. I don’t want to talk about this. It remains far too raw, too close to the heart, where so many troubles have situated themselves right before I blurted them out in full. </p>
<p>“Ali, I’m fine, really. I’m just eager to come home and see my girls. Hold the baby, make love with the missus. I’m especially eager for that last thing.”</p>
<p>“More so than holding your daughters?”</p>
<p><em>No</em>, I think, then joke, “I’m a terrible father, what can I say?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely horrible.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad we both finally realize this, now we can move on.”</p>
<p>“You want to discuss making love?”</p>
<p>“Yes, please."</p>
<p>It comes out sounding almost like I'm begging, which is not really the person I want to be right now. Or ever. Not with her, anyway. Jesus Christ, you'll be the fucking death of me, and you won't even know it. First my marriage, then my sanity, and then me—although perhaps not in that order.</p>
<p>“I assume you’ve been thinking about it a fair bit, B?”</p>
<p>I imagine she’s contemplating only her and myself making love, while my mind lingers there not nearly as frequently as it should. It wouldn’t be a lie, if I say yes. But it would feel like one.</p>
<p>“I am a massive shagger, Ali,” I instead remind her, a statement I always say proudly, except for today. I tried to, and maybe I even came close to succeeding, yet shame still streaks through my mind like a striptease gone rogue.</p>
<p>“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“About sex?”</p>
<p>“No. Well, yes, I suppose it is sex,” she muses, and it clicks. “The offer is still on the table, baby.”</p>
<p>Brilliant. We’re back on this then. Right when being fucked and you refuse to leave my mind. When not even a week has passed since you told me no. She wants to discuss this when I spent last night and part of this morning obsessing about the connection I long to establish, imagining you exploring that part (and all of) of my body. You, not her, because it should be you, Edge. Ali’s touched every other part of me. You deserve to travel new ground, if we ever were, by some miracle, to be intimate. It’s what I would want. A brand-new experience, your thumping pulse moving inside of me, matching my own. Shit, I may be in trouble.</p>
<p>“B?”</p>
<p>“It’s not about that,” I blurt out, and immediately regret it.</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“It’s not about sex.” Apparently, however, I cannot be stopped. A flaw exists between my brain and my mouth. It must.</p>
<p>“It’s—”</p>
<p>“Well, I mean, sex is involved. That is part of it. But it’s not—”</p>
<p>“Then what’s it about?”</p>
<p>“The connection!” The words burst out of me as if they’ve been waiting for weeks to do such a thing. And maybe they have. I’ve never been good at keeping things from her. I’ve rarely wanted to. This is it, a planted seed in full bloom. It was always going to come out, whether by force or willingly. She knows me too well. Even from halfway across the world, she’s able to sense the dragging weight that’s got me caught. What the fuck am I doing? “It’s about establishing a connection, Ali.”</p>
<p>She knows me better than I know myself. If I can sense the fatigue in my voice, then so can she, but amplified, paired with my words to narrow her focus completely. I want to fill the silence, I could suffocate listening to her steady breathing. But there’s nothing. What can I say now? She knows me better than I know myself.</p>
<p>“What connection are you talking about, B,” she finally says, her voice still sweet, even. I can hear the hurt edge lingering beneath, the possibility of despair or animosity. Thin ice, I recognize. “I mean, other than the one you share with your <em>wife</em>?”</p>
<p>“Ali,” I start, already clutching at straws. If I vomit, would that make her stop? “Love. Don’t get upset.”</p>
<p>“I’m not upset.” But she’s getting there. Abruptly, however, she sighs, deflating like a balloon that will never experience the freedom of a gust of wind. “I just want you to be happy.”</p>
<p>Unexpected does not begin to cover it. “I am happy,” I say, still clutching. “I’m with you.”</p>
<p>“B, don’t give me a line,” she responds after a beat, sounding as weary as I feel. “Talk to me straight, or not at all.”</p>
<p>Trust and transparency. That's what we agreed to have in this relationship right from the start, two words that should always go hand in hand. Yet I’m not sure I can tell her, or if I want to.</p>
<p>But I do. When she prompts me again with a soft, “Baby, please,” after a drawn-out silence, my voice finds itself, not caring one iota what my heart has to say. She’ll find out anyway. If not now, later, when enough time has passed to let the hurt fester. To become bedmates with resentment. </p>
<p>It spills out in what feels like one breath. I tell her about that night, about James and the curiosity which followed and festered just like hurt does, how easily such thoughts can snowball until they’re impossible to look past. She doesn’t speak as I fumble while trying to explain a need I barely understand myself sometimes, the mystifying desire to be reminded of my size as strong arms draw me closer but never make me feel small, insignificant. And the need to relinquish control, to give it up to someone who can leave me feeling safe in a way that differs to how it is when I’m with her. A masculine way, a man who can take over, who knows what I need.</p>
<p>I think I’m rambling, I’m definitely panicking, and she’s still not speaking. I've spent too many hours considering all of this, a fact which must be obvious. What am I doing? This is my <em>wife</em>.</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter,” I say after coming up for air. “Ali, it . . . he doesn’t matter, I would never even consider doing such a thing with a stranger, alright? It—I mean, it’s all about the trust, the connection, not unsentimental fucking. But it doesn’t matter.”</p>
<p>And just like that, I’ve run out of words, destined to once again listen to the silence. It’s one of the most haunting things I’ve endured in some time. I’ve fucked up. No, <em>I’m</em> fucked up. I must be, because there you are, still lingering in my thoughts, even now.</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter,” I start up again, if only to put an end to the torment. “I wouldn’t . . . Ali, I’ve never cheated on you. I don’t need to, I don’t <em>want</em> to, it was just something that occurred to me, that I thought about, and I don’t know, maybe I need a hobby or something, a distraction—”</p>
<p>“You seem to have thought about it a lot,” Ali cuts in, her tone deceptively even. It’s like a knife to my chest. “Would you have gone with him, had you not been interrupted?”</p>
<p>“No, of course not, I didn’t fucking know the guy! And I . . . it’s not—”</p>
<p>“Would you go with someone you did know?”</p>
<p>“I don’t need to,” I say weakly. It’s all I have. “I would never . . .”</p>
<p>“What if, I mean, would you . . .”</p>
<p>“Would I what?” I ask and don’t receive a reply. I can sense the cogs in her brain working, though. There are more questions building. I think I might know one of them, the same one I've heard a few times over the years. If she connects a name with it—your name—what will I do? She knows me better than I know myself. If she asks, brings you up, then it's too late. She'll have already figured it out. “Ali—”</p>
<p>“Bono, I don’t know what to do with this,” she says. It’s better than a question, more preferable than any mention of you, but it frightens me just as much.</p>
<p>“Let’s forget it, alright? Please? It’s nothing, it’s not at all important, okay?” I pause, waiting for her to agree, deny or react at all. Nothing comes. “You’re all I’ve ever needed.”</p>
<p>“But I can’t always be enough,” she says quietly.</p>
<p>“That’s not true.”</p>
<p>“I can’t always be there.”</p>
<p>“But you are, love.”</p>
<p>“Not in this sense. Not right now, I’m not.”</p>
<p>“Ali.”</p>
<p>“B,” she starts, then sighs. “I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”</p>
<p><em>No</em>, I want to say, that or<em> thank God. </em>We shouldn’t leave it like this, I want nothing more than to end this conversation, to distance myself from discussing this until we're face to face and have no choice. I don’t know what the fuck I want. “Alright,” I say finally. “Get some sleep. We'll, uh . . . I'll see you in a few days, okay? I love you.”</p>
<p>She pauses before saying goodnight and doesn’t offer those three syllables in return. I’m used to hearing them at the end of most phone calls.</p>
<p>It's melancholy in its richest form that I find myself struck down with after hanging up the phone. I don’t want to think about it, about anything—my marriage, my wants and needs. You.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, containment is near-impossible when it comes to such deliberations. A wild horse refusing to be stabled.</p>
<p>The temptation to take a bottle of drink and hide away in the bath for the rest of the evening is overwhelming. Chain the door, don’t answer to anyone (except maybe you), play up the diva rock star card until I garner a reputation in a single night. But a commitment has already been pencilled in, and there’s a side of me, even at my worst, that still believes in some professionalism.</p>
<p>I break out the whiskey anyway, yet once it’s poured at least seventy percent of my interest goes out the fucking window. I’m still on my first glass when Paul comes a-knocking, clapping me on the shoulder then giving a double-take that turns into a prying look when he realizes what he’s dealing with.</p>
<p>“What’s happened?”</p>
<p>“A meeting, apparently,” I answer. “Unless you’re just here for shits and giggles?”</p>
<p>He shakes his head, closing the door behind him. “No, a meeting is what’s about to happen.”</p>
<p>“So I’ve been told.”</p>
<p>Ever the sensible type, Paul decides to leave it there. He fills a glass without being offered, then settles down on the couch with me, and we wait for a few minutes. I’m not entirely sure what he’s rattling on about; my brain is efficiently drowning him out. I do nod once or twice, in a way that’s apparently not convincing. He stops talking after that second nod, tapping his chin with his finger as he studies me.</p>
<p>“Edge isn’t coming,” he says after a moment, your name enough to firmly drag me back to reality.</p>
<p>“Okay,” I reply, wanting to say more. It’s probably a good thing, you not being here today. No, it’s a kick in the balls, missing out on your presence beside me. “Why not?”</p>
<p>“I caught him at lunch, we had the whole discussion then. He’s fine with whatever you decide. You, Adam and Larry, I should say.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” I repeat, again wanting to say more. I don’t, though, turning my attention to the glass in my hand. Out the corner of my eye, I catch Paul frown.</p>
<p>“It’s best if we iron this out now, get it out of the way.”</p>
<p>“Did I suggest otherwise?”</p>
<p>A knock comes before he can reply. I let him answer the door, slightly raising my glass to Adam and Larry in greeting as they trail in.</p>
<p>“Alright to have a drink?” Larry asks as Adam narrows his eyes at me in consideration. Brilliant. This is exactly how I wanted tonight to go. I could be in a bath right now. I could be burrowed against your chest, drawing comfort and giving in to this exhaustion, if only you were here and wanting me. I could even be on the phone with the missus still, having taken the conversation a different direction before getting into it, making her miss my hands on her skin. Instead, here we are. Primed to discuss the logistics of this and that, while everyone stares me down and wonders. “Earth to Bono.”</p>
<p>“Suit yourself.”</p>
<p>It takes off from there, a two-part discussion about the most pressing matters we’re currently facing, beginning with a succinct dialogue about <em>Q </em>trailing us on the European leg for a time before launching into considerations for coming back to this great country, the one below it and beyond.</p>
<p>I mutter <em>yes</em>, <em>maybe</em> and <em>whatever works</em> in that order, and leave it at that until further clarification is apparently required.</p>
<p>It’s not Paul’s fault, but that doesn’t mean he should be safe from whatever ire might come his way. I don’t want him here. I don’t want any of them in my suite, yet here they are, and here I am, itching for a scrap.</p>
<p>There’s a small pause once I’ve said my piece and slumped back against the couch. Glances are exchanged. I have to stop myself from opening my mouth once more and truly snapping. If only you were here, Edge. It’s better that you’re not.</p>
<p>“Bono,” Adam says, that upside-down smile of his daring to come out and play. “Are you alright?”</p>
<p>“Why wouldn’t I be?”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t have to be ironed out today,” Paul jumps in, his hand falling against my knee to briefly squeeze. It’s a pacifying gesture I definitely don’t want right now. I don’t have the energy, the composure. But when I turn to offer my opinion, he’s got that kindly father look about him—an expression that can go either way with me, depending on the day, the hour. I’m not overly fond of the reminder that a certain Bob Hewson has never been much for comfort or gentleness. Sometimes, though, that’s why such a look works. “We’ve a few more weeks before anything requires firm confirmation, but I think it would be beneficial—”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” I concede, clearing my throat (as if it’ll help fix that ache in my chest) then forcing a rueful grin, one that I’m not sure is bought. Understandable. “Yeah, I know.” Abruptly, I feel the need to slap on a mask. Anything to turn their attention elsewhere. I rub my eyes, my face, clearing my throat once more as I glance at Paul. “What were we talking about?”</p>
<p>“You getting sick?” Larry speaks up. It's a question I’ve been asked many, many times over the years, one that I rarely enjoy. Right now, it’s enough to steal that front of mine away in half a second flat.</p>
<p>“No, I’m fucking fine,” I snap, then pause, the rational side of me immediately attempting to establish contact with my physical self.</p>
<p><em>Am</em> I getting sick? No. I don’t think so. Yes, there have been instances where I didn’t realize I under the weather until I was close to a mess, but that’s not in the cards for me today. My body is fine. That’s not the issue. Fucking hell, illness would be preferable. And it wouldn’t matter, in the long run. We’ve only one more show to do before break. That, I could handle mostly without incident or fuss.</p>
<p>This, though . . . this is the kind of crisis to make itself comfortable within, that already <em>has</em> done so. You should be here, Edge. It’s complete bullshit that you aren’t. You and your temperament, your calm that is catching. Your willingness to let me use you as a pillow (but nothing more). Your stillness.</p>
<p>Instead, I have Paul, who has deftly decided to start the conversation up again, Adam, who is only half-listening to him, and Larry, who, like Adam, obviously did not believe my assertion.</p>
<p>We have a plane ride home in a couple of days, a break where discussions can be held once rest has been had—if a good night’s sleep is a remote possibility for me, for any of us. This doesn’t have to be ironed out today, and we already have a structure of discussion in place, a point to continue from. Why are we even trying right now? I don’t want them here. My current list of wants and needs is only three items deep, with tour discussion nowhere to be found.</p>
<p>I last ten more seconds before giving in to the only want I have access to, slumping over and curling up with my legs bent, feet pressing harshly against Paul’s thigh. And you say subtlety isn’t my strong suit.</p>
<p>After analyzing the situation, Larry briskly says, “Well,” slapping his hands against his knees, then standing. “We’ll be going then.”</p>
<p>They leave without too much of a fuss, thank Christ. It’s only when the door clicks shut that I get up, sliding the chain into place and retrieving my pillow from the bedroom before returning to the couch, where I’m determined to stay for at least the next few hours. The bed seems so final, a commitment to spend the entire night.</p>
<p>Besides, I should get used to it (as if I don’t have a knack for drifting off wherever I sometimes collapse). I may yet end up sleeping on the couch in Killiney, once that discussion has continued. Hurt can turn to anger so quickly. I know this from experience.</p>
<p>I don’t want to think about it. Shut my mind off, achieve a sense of serenity until I can drift away without any drama—that’s the dream, isn’t it?</p>
<p>It doesn’t happen. She’s in my thoughts, and so are you. What did I expect? This. Precisely this. I’m not surprised in the least.</p>
<p>Soon enough, the knock comes. I’m not surprised by this either, although I raise an eyebrow after glancing at the clock. More time has passed than I figured. Usually, such interruptions don’t show this much restraint.</p>
<p>I know it’s you. Anyone else, I probably would roll over and bury my head back into the pillow. But I recognize your knock, know your patterns, even when you have me a little mystified. Still, I hesitate in getting up, simply because I’m not sure which Edge will be on the other side. Will you be curious, asking questions I’m not prepared to answer right now, or will you be courteous to my needs? I hope it’s the latter. I may kick you out if it’s not (I never could).</p>
<p>You’re wearing a smile that is bullshit when I open the door. “Did I wake you?”</p>
<p>“Were you sent here to spy on me, Edge?” I ask instead of answering, rightfully suspicious yet stepping aside all the same.</p>
<p>“I don’t spy, and no one controls me, B,” you reply, pausing to take me in as the door clicks shut. “However, I admit I did decide to come after overhearing a conversation.”</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>“And now that I think about it, that conversation might have been directed my way . . . and was concerning you.”</p>
<p>I’m not really in the mood for this, even coming from you. Despite this, I humour you by letting out, “Mmhmm,” before heading to once more settle down on the couch, mostly upright this time.</p>
<p>You’re not deterred. Why would you be? You’ve plenty of experience in dealing with this, with me. Isn’t that right, The Edge? You know exactly how to handle me. “Would you like a drink?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>You bring me one anyway. Tea, a smart choice that I don’t quite agree with. It’s a day for booze, even if my glass of whiskey remains unfinished on the coffee table. But I take a sip of my tea, perhaps only because you made it, and then another, ignoring the watchful gaze that somehow intensifies when you settle down by my side with your own mug.</p>
<p>“Taste alright?” you ask.</p>
<p>I simply nod, almost certain that if I open my mouth at this very moment, a request will come out. Not <em>the</em> request. Just a wish for comfort you’ve offered me so many times in the past, that, in my mind, I’ve already weighed down with some fresh new baggage.</p>
<p>If I lean in right now, you would almost certainly wrap your arm around my shoulders and pull me closer, keep me there against your body until you figure the moment is over, reassurance delivered.</p>
<p>I’m not sure it would be enough. I know I wouldn’t want you to gently guide me away from you. Edge, I just want you to touch me.</p>
<p>It’s as if you can read my mind, although it’s nowhere near what I was after. You reach out a hand, and I slap it away before you can connect. I should have seen this coming. It’s why you’re here, after all.</p>
<p>I attempt to level you with a glare, one that doesn’t land. You remain a world away from shame. “Don’t.”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” you say, continuing to look at me like you do. I can’t make it last, not today. After a moment, I relent, leaning in slightly, allowing you to touch my forehead, my cheek with the back of your hand. It’s not the touch I want, but it still makes its mark.</p>
<p>“Did I pass the test?” I ask, as always, once you’ve completed your concise medical examination.</p>
<p>“With flying colours,” you reply, lacking the smile that usually accompanies those three words. Briefly, your eyes flicker back and forth across my face. I’m almost certain a question or two is going to be poised, and while I won’t kick you out, there’s a good chance you won’t enjoy my reaction.</p>
<p>You surprise me, though, by staying quiet, the corner of your lip quirking as you pat my knee. Again, it’s not the touch I want. I nevertheless store it away for keeps.</p>
<p>“Do you want to watch something?”</p>
<p>I don’t but agree anyway. You get up to snag the remote from the other chair as I take one final sip of my tea before neglecting it forever. When you return to the couch, you don’t sit pressed up against my side, instead giving me as much space as physically possible.</p>
<p>On another day, I might have been offended. Right now, however, I get it and am grateful you recognize at least one of my needs.</p>
<p>It’s tempting to use your lap as a pillow. You likely wouldn’t be too surprised. But there’s a difference between what I want and what I should do. Distance, I figure, is a necessity today, when my mind is still mostly preoccupied by Ali. Her and that phone call.</p>
<p>That doesn’t stop me from partly giving in, my bare feet ending up in your lap once I’ve stretched out against my actual pillow. I think this is what you expected from me. At the very least, you’re quick to squeeze my ankle, your hand retracting far too quickly to rest against your thigh, right next to my sad excuse of a foot.</p>
<p>It doesn’t matter. Your presence is enough, not a fix, but a means of settling me. It’s that temperament of yours, Edge. The calmness I’ve needed in this suite since hanging up that phone. Longer.</p>
<p>Perhaps I should bring you home with me, keep you there for emergencies, for you to linger by my side after Ali looks at me with those big brown eyes and asks <em>why</em>—a single word that conveys so fucking much.</p>
<p>It might just be the stupidest idea I’ve had in some time, simply because you’re the answer to at least two of her possible questions, maybe more.</p>
<p>You’re staying with Adam for a reason when we get home, the two of you cramped together in his guest cottage while the main house is renovated, a living situation you’re not at all bothered by. It’s only for a couple of weeks. After hearing this, though, Ali immediately suggested we take you in. She is, after all, sympathetic to the circumstances surrounding your family life, and God, she just <em>adores</em> you, love.</p>
<p>But what would she think if she knew the truth?</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” you explained to her when she asked.</p>
<p>“You never could,” she responded. “It’s a very big house, Edge. We’d barely notice you were there.”</p>
<p>“I appreciate it, but I really am fine in the bachelor pad, honestly.”</p>
<p>“Well . . . if you’re sure. But if you change your mind, it’s there on the table.”</p>
<p>It was a discussion I witnessed over dinner, one that I could have offered my own thoughts on the matter yet didn’t.</p>
<p>I kept my mouth shut.</p>
<p>We watch television in silence until my vision finally begins to blur, my concentration withering. It's you, you and your tranquil nature. You’re a goddamn blessing in my life, love, even when you may one day be the death of me. You’re exactly what I need.</p>
<p>From my vantage point, the television holds the entirety of your focus, yet you again squeeze my ankle the moment I close my eyes. A part of you must have been watching me, anticipating this. I’m fine with it. Fine with being monitored. I’m just happy you’re here. Your elegant fingers linger against my skin, your thumb stirring up the hair near my ankle bone before your hand finally strays. I’m fine with that too, the selfish side of me heading toward the sunset in search of a brief respite.</p>
<p>I’m just happy you’re here.</p>
<p>When I open my eyes next, my brain is still ten seconds in the past. All I know is there’s a blanket over me, my head is thumping, and you are not here. One glance at the time tells me this shouldn’t be surprising—there’s only so long you can sit and wait for someone to wake up.</p>
<p>I consider calling you, calling her, but stop myself just in time, instead dialling room service. When my meal arrives, I pick at it before giving up completely, my appetite and selfishness having traded places without warning.</p>
<p>After showering, there’s nothing left to do but slide between the sheets and will my brain to switch off, or at least picture Ali by my side. But it’s you, Edge, just you that saunters in to make the biggest impression, and I don’t feel as guilty about it as I should after such a day. This is my life now, it seems. This is what the future holds.</p>
<p>I wish you were here.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Stratosphere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a gathering in the hotel bar the following night to celebrate having made it through the first leg (mostly) without incident. Extremely VIP, the lot of us to be roped off like we’re unruly animals. It’s not too far from the truth, some nights, and there are times when I’m close to leading the herd, or causing it to turn into a stampede. “But it’s not my fault,” I like to insist when certain people start looking for the ringleader. I’m rarely, <em>truly</em> to blame.</p><p>. . . It is often my fault, though they can’t be too surprised, and usually, they aren’t. “There may be something wrong with me,” I said out loud exactly once in my life before internalizing that baggage for good, yet I might have been on to something. Although <em>wrong</em> is such a strong word. There are other ways to phrase it, certainly.</p><p>One night after a show, I exclaimed, “I don’t know why I do these fucking things,” causing you to roll your eyes at me. A similar sentence came out another night, and another, and another, and so on. Twice, I received some kind of sympathy, forgiveness of sorts, and only once did it come from you. You learned your lesson after that, it seems.</p><p>No. You just got to know me too well.</p><p>I’m expected at that gathering, being a VIP and all—three letters smashed together, a title I appreciate only half of the time (at least, that’s what I tell myself and others), and definitely not tonight. And I know I should be there, given what is being celebrated and because I won’t be seeing many of them for a couple of weeks.</p><p>Instead of following everyone else, however, I make my way to the elevator, waving John off, confident I can get up to my room and into the shower without bodily protection. And I do, and there’s no one here to congratulate me, and I’m completely fine with this.</p><p>I don’t want them tonight. I don’t want the noise; I’ve had too much of it already. But after sitting with my thoughts for a while, I realize I don’t want the deafening silence either. The stillness that comes with an empty hotel suite.</p><p>It’s a tricky situation to be in, being caught in the middle of wants and don’t-wants. So instead of dealing with the issue at hand, I head downstairs in my shiny clean clothes, smelling fresh, wondering how close I might come to escaping before someone notices and hauls me back into their clutches.</p><p>The lobby, as it turns out, which is a fair effort. John doesn’t look at all surprised to see me. I’m about ninety-nine percent certain he’s been anticipating this move since the moment we left the venue.</p><p>“Almost, Johnny,” I say with a tired grin. “One day soon I’m gonna slip through the cracks.”</p><p>John gives me a long-suffering look in response, one that says <em>I’m going to die young because of your reckless self</em>. “What’s the plan, boss?” he responds in place of what he’s likely thinking, but it’s okay—I know he loves me.</p><p>“What’s a plan?” I ask. “I don’t think I’ve once acquainted myself with such a thing.”</p><p>And there’s that look again, though it doesn’t last. A smile emerges, even as John shakes his head, his hand coming down to guide me toward the door.</p><p>There’s a disappointing fan turnout gathered outside, but I’ll take whatever love I can get, kissing a few beautiful women, signing a shirt or two, waving an elegant farewell as I’m ushered into a car. The door closes behind John, and I slump in my seat, all the air in my body rushing out of my lungs.</p><p>“Where to?” asks the driver. I look at John, lost. It wasn’t a lie—there’s absolutely no plan bouncing about in my brain, just a vague urge to do something, head somewhere else. Escape from it all.</p><p>“Downtown,” John answers for me after a brief deliberation. “By the waterfront.”</p><p>He knows me too well. I’m thankful for that—the guy is protecting my hopeless arse on a daily basis, after all. Being half a step ahead is pretty important in that regard, because who could know what I might do next? Me, perhaps, but only sometimes. This guy, on the other hand? He had me clocked in no fucking time at all.</p><p>Vancouver passes in a blur, the streaks of lights and colours in the darkness proving to be so disorientating I have to glance away. If only I thought to bring my sunglasses. Clearly, they should be a pressing accessory after midnight in British Columbia—file that under a mental note for next time we’re here.</p><p>With nothing to guard me, I close my eyes and lean back against the seat, willing the motion of the car to lull me toward something akin to calm. It’s not effective, not when there are stops and starts, red lights and other vehicles on the road, or a lack of distance between reality and me. I rub my face, wrap my arms around myself tightly, and ignore that prickly sensation at the back of my neck until it becomes impossible.</p><p>It’s John. He’s watching me, like always, though I have a feeling this is not because of duty. But when I open my eyes, I find him looking out of his own window.</p><p> “Tired?” I ask, determined to catch him out. John glances over, his mask coming up a split second later. And there it is. I’m nothing if not sensitive to the moods of others, and this motherfucker is worried. I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m currently lacking the means to remain incognito (no hat, hulking bodyguard, what an attention grabber) or otherwise.</p><p>“Never.”</p><p>It’s a lie, of course, yet I don’t call him on it. If I started then he might start—not verbally, no, just a pointed look that might shame any other person but not me . . . most of the time.</p><p>“Atta boy. We’re one and the same, you and I.”</p><p>“I’m not sure I agree with that,” John says slowly. “But I’m interested to hear your reasoning.”</p><p>“It’s no one thing, it’s just . . . who we are. Our <em>essence</em>, Johnny. But also our physicality.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Although you may be slightly taller,” I concede after a beat. “Only slightly.”</p><p>“Right,” John says again, staring me down before turning back toward the window. “That’s pretty much what I expected you to say, boss.”</p><p>I huff out a laugh, but it doesn’t have the legs it should. I’m glad you’re not here right now, that neither of you are. I don’t need the questions, the soul-searching glances. I don’t want the noise, the deafening silence.</p><p>I wish you were here.</p><p>We get out by the waterfront, as promised. Unbelievably, I forgot to bring my wallet with me, but John has my back, slipping the driver what is owed.</p><p>“What would I do without you?” I ask.</p><p>“Do you want me to truthfully answer that question?”</p><p>“For the love of God, no.” I shake my head and throw up a dramatic hand, making him grin. That’s it. I still have an audience, a distraction. At least for a little while longer. “I think it might be the end of me.”</p><p>“Well,” he says, “we wouldn’t want that, boss. I like this job.”</p><p>We make our way along the waterfront, John slowly but surely furthering the distance between us. He’s a touch uneasy, I can tell, but doesn’t voice his concerns, allowing me to do my own thing. It’s the right choice, and I could kiss him for it. No one bothers me, and for the first time in fuck knows how long, I’m reacquainted with a sense of freedom.</p><p>There’s absolutely no plan. I wander aimlessly, taking in the sights, the scattered people, the water at my side. I imagine there is a Marina around here somewhere. If I keep walking, I might even stumble upon it.</p><p>Would John support me if I were to engage in some maritime mischief this evening? Perhaps, perhaps. Would you, if I called and asked you to join us down here? I’m not so sure. You might. You have in the past. You’ve also said no. But I don’t want to think about you. I’m determined not to think about you, about anyone or anything of importance.</p><p>I can’t help but think about you.</p><p>How could I not? I can hear the water at my side, glance over and take in its inky movements. I can stop right here, lean against the railing, and completely lose sight of my surroundings.</p><p>We were planning on buying a boat together, Edge. You never said yes to me, that night in Providence, but you would have eventually, because that’s what you do. I’m not sure if it’s on the cards anymore. I hope it is.</p><p>A blip in the system, back to normal. Buy a boat and get on with it. The two of us out on the open sea, finding that beach of ours, staying there until the light slowly begins to fade and you have me turn my back to the ocean and look your way as you lift your camera, as you capture me with the sunset in the distance. Pinks and purples streaking the sky,<em> come on, don’t force a smile, just be yourself. Perfect . . . beautiful.</em></p><p>There’s nothing romantic about it. You simply identify a good shot when you see one.</p><p>It’s sometimes hard to know where that beach of ours, one that exists only in my mind, is situated within the world. I imagine the Mediterranean, yet the stone I might bend down to pick up is smooth and familiar, and the scenery shifts from being unrecognizable to something I forever hold within my mind, my heart. It could be a random beach with glimmering white sand, but it may also be Killiney. It’s possible home is calling me. I just don’t know.</p><p>But this indecision won’t stop me from considering them both, from considering you until shame takes a backseat to something else entirely, before swinging around for a second go of things then ultimately being defeated.</p><p>A sudden hand on my shoulder pulls me right back into the real world, making me jump like a fucking wuss. John doesn’t laugh at my predicament. He knows better.</p><p> “I think we should go home now, boss,” he suggests, his expression telling me it’s probably for the best. I honestly have no idea how long we’ve been out here, but I’m fairly certain <em>too long</em> is the answer. What can I say? My mind gets busy, the world does its part to distract. I can drift away just as well as you do sometimes. “It’s getting on.”</p><p>“You can go if you want,” I reply, a complete bastard of a response, one that makes us both chuckle.</p><p>“One day I might.”</p><p>“And I’d be completely fine with it, truly.”</p><p>“It’s management, not you that I’m worried about.” He pauses, giving me a sly look. “Actually, it’s both, but in different ways. There’s being fired, and then there’s you drowning in a shallow pool or somehow ending up in Narnia.”</p><p>“It would be an absolute trip, finding myself in Narnia,” I say, faux-wistfully. “Though I can’t say I’ve made much of an effort to get myself there. I’ve not climbed into many wardrobes in my time. Or come out of any closets, for that matter.”</p><p>John just smiles, looking down at me like I’m his sweet yet challenging child. Or is it challenged? It’s not important, I’ll take what I can get. “What’s the plan, boss?”</p><p>“Take me home,” I relent, and he gladly does.</p><p>I’ve absolutely no idea what time it is. It didn’t occur to me to bring a watch, and it’s not pressing enough to ask. It’s late, I’m sure of it, yet the moon is still shining brightly through the window, there’s a smattering of activity on the streets, and I only feel the need to close my eyes twice on the way back to the hotel. That’s not tiredness, however, not exactly.</p><p>The fans are gone, the VIP party winding down, though not over completely. I almost keep walking but know I can’t leave without checking. And I’m glad I do, because there you are in the back, looking like the sorriest motherfucker on the planet, sitting with Larry and Willie. Although sitting is a bit of a fancy word in this situation. Slumped is more appropriate, your head on the table, one arm hanging loosely by your side.</p><p>We have to fly home tomorrow—or rather, today. <em>You</em> have to fly home, The Edge, while probably feeling like the sorriest motherfucker on the planet as well.</p><p>Meanwhile, Larry and Willie remain completely unbothered by your functionally useless self, boisterously chattering on as I mentally prepare myself for the experience I’m about to have with you.</p><p>“Do you want me to take this one?” John asks once we’re safely behind the rope and only a few steps away from you and the other two wankers.</p><p>“No,” I say, though a small part of me wants to throw out a grateful <em>yes</em>. Take the problem off my hands, let me climb right into bed and hide away from it all instead of dealing with this. You’re not mine, after all. I’m constantly being reminded of that fact. Technically, you’re not mine to protect, to take care of. And yet, I know it has to be me. “No, this looks to be right up my alley.”</p><p>“Where have you been?” Willie exclaims by way of greeting when we reach the table. To my surprise, your hand comes up loosely wave. I was so sure you were asleep, but you’re not. You most definitely are not, although lucidity seems to be a distant memory.</p><p>“Here and there,” I answer, cocking my head to the side to get a better look at you. Fucking hell, I’m not sure I have the energy. What have you done to yourself, love?</p><p>One glance at the table tells me vodka was involved, at least, but I know enough to figure I’ve missed out on a far bigger tale. Has it been a night for experiencing a torrid love affair with shots of hard liquor, perhaps? </p><p>“He was fuckin’ thirsty,” Larry loudly and sardonically protests with a jerking hand motion directed your way, as if I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise figure out who he was talking about.</p><p>I’ve not said a damn thing to prompt this defensive strategy from him, but I’m not complaining because it grabs your attention, and you rise like Jesus himself to look at me and smile that charming smile you get only when you’re three sheets to the wind. “<em>Heeeey</em>.”</p><p>“Hey yourself, dude,” I say in my most patient and sweet voice, because I think it might be needed right now. “Do you think it’s bedtime?”</p><p>“Am I sleeping with you?” you ask, causing Willie and Larry to giggle like a couple of tanked-up eejits. John, somehow, tempers it down to a grin. I imagine these reactions are directed at your slurring, not the sudden interest in bedsharing. It’s fun to pretend sometimes. To ignore certain things. Like my own brief internal reaction to your words, for one. God, what have I done to deserve this?</p><p>“You most definitely are not,” I reply after a much-needed beat. “Come on now, you fucking lush.”</p><p>You really are functionally useless, I discover after getting you to your feet, somehow having found your second wind. There is a side of me that enjoys you like this. You, who makes a living with your impressive hand-eye coordination, who thinks before he speaks, measures his words while mine tumble out, and falls silent . . . generally, when said words of mine are tumbling out.</p><p>I’m sorry, The Edge, I just get excited sometimes. A lot of the time. Certainly far more than you end up like this, which means that my talking is often viewed as an annoyance—and rightfully so, though it should be only some of the time, because I do have feelings, you know, and ideas, and opinions that fucking matter.</p><p>As it happens, there is a chance I’m also clumsy, though I refuse to either confirm or deny this, instead preferring to present <em>The Joshua Tree</em> tour as both my evidence toward and argument against. Cuts, bruises and dislocations speak louder than words ever could, but I do maintain that I survived the majority of shows without hurting myself, and that’s got to count for something. A similar argument, I suppose, to a defendant pointing out all the people their client <em>didn’t</em> murder after putting those two other poor bastards in the ground.</p><p>The point is, when I talk and talk or slip and fall, nobody is really surprised anymore. It’s old hat. But when you stumble about like you are now, and loudly ramble on like you just discovered the English language and would like to share your newfound knowledge despite currently lacking the skills to be even a half-decent orator, it’s not annoying in the least. Exasperating to a certain degree, sure, but also rather funny and—somewhat unfortunately for me this evening—devastatingly adorable.</p><p>It’s got John laughing. And me, just a bit, as we make our way out of the bar and I dare to shush you, only because you’re making a small scene with your views on . . . Jesus, who could know? You stare at me, shocked that I would do such as a thing, as the other two people in our immediate vicinity look at you, as I apologize and request that you continue. Instead, silence reigns, although not for long.</p><p>“Where are you taking me?” you clumsily demand while we wait for the elevator. The genius of the band, as always.</p><p>“To your room, The Edge,” I explain as the doors slide open. You’re frowning as I pull you inside, but you don’t respond. I’m sure, however, something is building. I should be grateful for the distraction. A part of me is. Replacing thoughts about my wife with your loose and physical presence, however, isn't the best solution. I'm not complaining, though, a notion that aligns with the reason why I'm so anxious about returning to the home I love.</p><p>“Do you need me for this, boss?” John asks after selecting the top floor. Resigned, I shake my head as the elevator comes to life.</p><p>“Oh, I’ve dealt with far worse.”</p><p>“You’ve also <em>been</em> far worse,” John counters, pressing his floor. I can’t argue with it, so I don’t, chuckling until you grab my arm, hard.</p><p>“What about your room?” you ask abruptly.</p><p>“Well, I thought I might go there myself.”</p><p>“I’ll come.”</p><p>“Mmm, no, I figured I’d go alone, Edge, but I do appreciate the offer.”</p><p>“It’s my job.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Making you safe,” you say, off-kilter yet somehow intense in your bout of staring into my soul. Both that look and your comment are enough to throw me completely, to leave me unsure of how to respond. Or feel. Edge, you have no fucking clue what you do to me, do you?</p><p>“It’s my job, actually,” John speaks up, quiet enough that I’m sure it’s just for me. And then the door slides open and he leaves his post, throwing an amused, “Good luck,” over his shoulder.</p><p>Just like that, we’re alone. The doors close, the elevator begins climbing once more, though it doesn’t have far to go. You’re already looking at me when I turn and say, “It is not your job.”</p><p>I might as well have told you I don’t believe in gravity. The doors open, and you continue to stare a perplexed hole into my very being as I drag you out onto the carpet. “It is,” you exclaim suddenly. “Have to get you home.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m the problem child here.”</p><p>“You’re not a problem.” You again grab my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “You’re not a <em>fucking</em> <em>problem</em>.”</p><p>“Okay,” I say in a voice I hope is soothing enough, because, frankly, you’re getting a bit loud again, and I’m not currently equipped to deal with a you that has no filter. “Shh, I’m not a fucking problem, glad we cleared that up.”</p><p>I pause, glancing around, avoiding you until I can’t anymore. We’re five feet away from my door. Yours, meanwhile, is all the way down the long hallway. Did you consider logistics when you stopped me? I’m a little suspicious right now. “I sometimes am a fucking problem, though,” I add, more to see your reaction than anything. Not at all because I need a moment to think.</p><p>Immediately, I regret my choice, as your face falls and you shake your head. Forget gravity, we’ve moved on to something far more important. Like the Holy Spirit, perhaps. Or the Easter Bunny.</p><p>“I gotta take care of you.”</p><p>“Why?” I ask, and you don’t answer, the word looking as though it’s rolling through your mind as you stare right on through me. This isn’t like drunk you at all. Where’s our happy boy gone? “I don’t need taking care of, Edge. And even if I did, I wouldn’t expect that burden to fall upon your shoulders.”</p><p>Again, you shake your head. It’s such a small action, yet it leaves me even more unsure of how to continue. I could keep us walking, take you to your suite, and make you hug me until I can barely breathe and peace returns to my life for a few blinding moments. I could open my mouth right now, talk until that expression leaves your face, or worsens. I could say fuck it and march us both that easy five feet. I have a spare bedroom; it wouldn’t be a problem. It would be completely fine. Back to normal. One day soon I might believe it’s possible.</p><p>Yet before I can try any of that, you decide for us both, leaning in until your forehead falls on my shoulder. It’s not a burden, however. It never could be. And when your unsteady hand comes up to grasp the back of my neck, your fingers slipping into my hair, I almost lose my composure. “Edge.”</p><p>“Been worried about you,” you say quietly.</p><p>That’s all it takes. I rest my cheek against yours, allowing myself that moment, gripping your arm, your shoulder, before reaching into my coat pocket for my key card. “Come on, love.”</p><p>You trail behind me like a lost puppy, silent now as you follow me inside, right into my bedroom where you flop down on my bed, looking like you’re ready to settle in for the night.</p><p>It’s not at all what I planned, but when does anything ever happen as it should? Obviously, the Lord is testing me. <em>Survive tonight</em>, speaketh He, <em>and you’ll survive the rest of your days by Edge’s side</em>.</p><p><em>A little warning would have been advantageous</em>, I want to argue back, like it would make a difference. Your current condition is doing well to deepen that piercing thorn, yes, but it's not just tonight that's the problem. My strength for existing near you and remaining unchanged has left the fucking stratosphere.</p><p>You’re on my bed, pissed as a fart, watching me with a dopey expression on your face, your body slumping, melding into the mattress. I could try and move you, but I imagine I would fail, in more ways than one. You are currently the unmovable Edge, and, like this, you’re plenty dangerous to my general stability. Emotional, physical, spiritual, the whole lot. Mostly emotional, especially if you say those words again. Or if you say something else, something more.</p><p>You won’t, though. It’s simply not a part of your vernacular when you glance my way, not in that context.</p><p>There is also a chance that you may attempt to grope me if I get too close. San Francisco is forever only a heartbeat away in my mind, you know. Except you don’t. Currently, I don’t think you know a damn thing, The Edge, and it’s adorable, sweet, soul-crushing, and slightly exasperating to experience. And tempting. It’s so tempting to step into your zone and see what happens.</p><p>But I’m not that person. I’ll never be that person. Who would want to? Only the scum of humanity, and maybe a few sad, lost souls, desperate for even a bit of human contact. It doesn’t make it right, though. There’s nothing justifiable about approaching a drunk person with sex on one’s sober mind.</p><p>So I keep my distance, contemplating my options and praying for the deliverance of some fucking serenity as I take off my shearling coat and hang it over the chair.</p><p>If you’re not going to move—though you might if I try hard enough, if I take your hand in mine—then it’s either share a bed with you or sleep in the spare room. Which means, really, there’s only one real option that’s viable, and I cannot believe I’m going to kick myself out of the bigger bedroom of my own damn hotel suite because of you.</p><p>Again, not at all what I planned, but that’s life, that’s these past two days summed up to the last letter. Every leg of a tour should end with a healthy amount of me being brought down a peg and left utterly defeated. My head might not fit in through my front door back home, otherwise. At this stage, there’s a chance I still might not make it through, and it won’t be because of my ego.</p><p>“Would you take your shoes off, Edge?” I ask when I catch another glimpse at you. It’s all I have. God knows where you’ve been stomping, what you’re accidentally rubbing against that nice white bedding.</p><p>“Yeah,” you agree, but don’t. I wisely decide not to press the matter, instead sitting down on the chair to remove my own shoes, my socks, before standing and dragging my shirt up and off. It, too, is left abandoned in the chair, as I undo my fly and move to slip out of my pants, then stop, my Spidey sense urgently raising its hand.</p><p>You’re watching. I know it even before I turn around, before I meet your eye. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but it is. My pants are hanging open, my shirt already last week’s news, and your expression is stunningly similar to the one I remember from that night in San Francisco. It doesn’t quite match how you’ve looked at me those few times I’ve caught you staring recently, when you perhaps didn’t think I would notice or didn’t realize you were doing it or it meant absolutely nothing to you but everything to me.</p><p>Yet San Francisco was different, and so is this, isn’t it? It’s worse, or better, depending on whatever perspective I choose to take. You’re stuck between a smile and something far more serious, stroking your stomach as the silence stretches on.</p><p>For some strange reason, you’re worried about me. You want to look after me, keep me safe, as if I need any of that. As if I am yours to worry about. And now here we are. Here <em>you</em> are. Staring at me in a way that I’ve no choice but to interpret as unreservedly sexual.</p><p>One day soon, Edge, I’m going to suffocate in a room with perfect breathing conditions while caught up in a situation like this. With you by my side, or on the bed as you are now.</p><p>Watching.</p><p>“Like what you see?”</p><p>It slips out before I can even consider rejecting the very idea of saying such an idiotic thing. Fuck, there is a real chance that, at any moment, I may begin to actually weep, or cross the room and make an even bigger mistake.</p><p>With nothing else to lose (or gain) and a sudden and intense need to bring levity back into the equation, I strike some sort of pose, which is a mistake for so many, <em>many</em> reasons. My complete loss of pride, for one, not to mention what’s left of my emotional stability.</p><p>But none of that matters, because you drag yourself up against the pillows, shifting forward as though you’re going to either leave or reach out a hand toward me. And while you do neither (though I’m almost sure I see your fingers twitch), it’s still enough to change my mind.</p><p>Tonight, it’s really not the best idea to have you in my suite—a realization that makes my heart somehow beat even faster than it already is and my stomach turn.</p><p>I think your answer right now to my question may be yes, but I might be wrong. Even if it is, it’ll likely be different when you’re sober. It’s hard to know for sure, however. Truly, I have no idea about most things right now, nothing except for my thumping heart and the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe.</p><p>I’ve always been fascinated by how fear and excitement can replicate one another within my organs, my central nervous system. It’s partly why I used to climb high above our audiences. It’s why I want to step flush against the side of the bed right now, close enough for you to touch me as I ask, “Have you changed your mind?”</p><p>But I don’t. Because I’m supposed to be letting go of this, I've already caused enough havoc, and you are functionally useless.</p><p>We’re both completely fucked in different ways, love, and I pray to the Almighty above that this isn’t one of those insanely drunken memories your brain, for some reason, decides to retain. Mostly because of the line I just pulled, the pose, but also your own reaction.</p><p>I’m not sure what you would think about that. It might even make you take a large step in the wrong direction. Protection. Self-preservation. You do it so well, but only sometimes, and why is that? I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand.</p><p>You mystify me, Edge.</p><p>“Shoes off,” I say, breaking the silence the only logical way I can think to do so, and this time, I’m somehow even more ignored by you. Are you fading away on me, or just a little distracted with what’s going on upstairs, or . . . elsewhere? “Edge.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>You’re still watching me, though your intensity is slipping. It’s then that I chose <em>fuck everything</em> to be my new motto in life (although it likely won’t stick for too long when you’re involved) and wrangle down my pants, stepping out of them as quick as lightning. I don’t look at you, and it’s not at all scandalous as I’m still in my Calvin’s, thank you very much. Nevertheless, I snag a worn grey shirt from my suitcase and slip it on in no time, then turn back to face you.</p><p>You really are beginning to fade. Not much of a problem child left in you now, if there ever was. But I made a decision for a reason, and I’m sticking to my guns. I think I have to.</p><p>Sneakily, I approach you when you’re in the midst of an extended blink, grasping your hand, your elegant fingers before you even know it.</p><p>“Come on,” I say, sounding as though I’m close to begging. In response, you look at me like the drunken eejit that you are as I resolutely tug your arm, achieving absolutely nothing. “Time to go, Edge.”</p><p>“No, I’ll stay here,” you insist, your face falling when I shake my head and tug a little harder.</p><p>“Not a chance.”</p><p>Somehow, I manage to move the unmovable, intending to somehow get you into your own fucking suite. It doesn’t matter that I’m underdressed for the occasion, or that you’re currently lacking the fine motor skills you usually possess.</p><p>I’m determined, and I remain that way, even as we stagger out of my bedroom and lurch right on towards the main bathroom—your choice, not mine. But I think, in this case, it’s a solid decision on your part. And a little surprising, as there was almost no indication this was coming, but that’s just how it goes sometimes. A part of the human existence.</p><p>You almost headbutt the seat in your rush, and it occurs to me that this is my life now. This is my destiny for at least the next few minutes, possibly longer. Watching you vomit in my fucking toilet, rubbing your back as you heave and gasp, saying the kinds of things we’re supposed to say in such a situation. <em>It’s okay, you’re okay, let it out, are you done? Are you sure?</em> When you nod, I don’t believe you—and for good reason—and rub your back a bit more, waiting until I feel somewhat confident about the situation and can help you to your feet and direct you in rinsing your mouth out.</p><p>It could have been worse. You could have missed the toilet or decided to take your hair out of its safe little braid at some point prior to this.</p><p>But it also could have been better. It could have been me suffering instead of you.</p><p>We try again, this time making it as far as the spare bedroom. Which is good enough, I suppose, giving up in a way that is still somewhat acceptable. It’s not out of this suite, but it’s a sizable achievement, and it’s certainly better than my bed.</p><p>Truthfully, I don’t have the current capacity to try wrangle you any further. To feel you pressed so warm against my side. I thought I did. I think a lot of things, as it turns out, and often say them too. And sometimes, people ask me for my thoughts, and I offer them without thinking. I’m that dumb.</p><p>After I draw back the covers, you flop down onto the mattress, looking a sorry sight indeed.  Somehow, you manage to find it in yourself to squint my way and ask, “You stayin’?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“Stay.”</p><p>“You’re pissed.”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>Adorable, yet exasperating, for sure. You offer me absolutely no help in getting your damn shoes off, yet I have to laugh, even if it comes out tinged with hysteria.</p><p>“Don’t throw up in here,” I say (or plead) only once you’re settled, although I’m pretty sure you’ve got nothing left to lose. “They’ll think it was me and I’ll get a reputation, as if I were some kind of rock star.”</p><p>You don’t react, which is disappointing. I’m pretty sure I deserved something. A twitch of your lips, at least. Instead, you simply continue to squint at me. It’s a lost cause, no doubt. <em>You’re</em> a lost cause, The Edge.</p><p>We both are.</p><p>I round up a couple of glasses of water, one for myself, and when I return, you’re out like a light. It’s one of the least surprising things I’ve seen in my life. And, just like that, you’ve lost the exasperating side that has been hanging about.</p><p>Without thinking, I push the few free wisps of hair out of your face, judging myself completely as I drag my arse out of the room, a glass of water on your side table, the door left wide open. Just in case.</p><p>“Fucking hell,” I let out once I am safe in my bed, before slamming my head back into the soft pillow at least twice, maybe more. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t affect my brain or change a fucking thing.</p><p>I’m not sure I can do this, Edge. Any of it. I don't think I can make it last.</p><p>You both know me too damn well.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Interference</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s perfectly normal, the four of us setting out on a journey. That’s how this whole grand madness started, after all. I’ve no reason to question it, although you seem vaguely concerned, gazing back down the road we've just walked, searching for . . . something. I don’t ask. We’re on a mission, Edge. We have a plan. Success rarely comes from looking to the past, from worrying about what's being left behind.</p>
<p>“You know,” you say, after stopping me with a grasping hand. “I have a funny feeling we’re not in Dublin anymore.”</p>
<p>“No, we’re not,” Adam agrees thoughtfully, as though it just occurred to him as well.</p>
<p>“What the fuck do you think this is all for?” Larry asks, glaring at us three as he puts out his hand. “Twirl?”</p>
<p>It’s a request, not an offering. I remove the chocolate from my pocket and hand it over, then repeat this for you. Adam goes without yet isn’t bothered in the least. It seems right. I’m not sure he’s supposed to be eating chocolate.</p>
<p>“B?”</p>
<p>I don’t answer, although I do glance your way. You, who I think might be the leader of this whole rag-tag ensemble. And how weird is that? <em>Is</em> it weird? It should be. Usually, it’s me who has this covered (or at least tries to), but I’m fine, completely fine. I don’t need control. It’s something else I’m after—not a brain, nor a heart, although they might be helpful, but no . . . it’s something else.</p>
<p>I open my mouth to ask, only to say, “I am <em>not</em> doing another soundcheck.”</p>
<p>“Where the fuck do you think we’re going?” Larry asks, pointing over my shoulder. “Stage is back there, dickhead.”</p>
<p>Good, I think, as we once more start our journey forward, coming across a blue door in no time. I know that door. I think I own that door.</p>
<p>It doesn’t take me to where I think it should, however, and just like that, we’re back on stage and I’m looking out over thousands of empty seats, but it’s fine, completely fine.</p>
<p>I pick up your guitar, you take my microphone, and we both stare as it comes to life without warning, making a hell of a racket. And then I come to life with a start, arm flailing, prepared for a brawl, only to have reality settle in too damn fast.</p>
<p>Blindly, I fumble for the phone, almost knocking it to the ground before finding my target.</p>
<p>“What?” I bark into the receiver, or try to, my voice apparently suffering from belated post-concert hoarseness. Which is probably for the best, as my friend on the other end does not deserve my wrath, no matter how cheery they are at arsehole o’clock in the morning. Otherwise known as half nine, so sayeth my designated wake up caller.</p>
<p>“Fucking hell,” is my only response before hanging up.</p>
<p>Wisely, I don’t linger in bed. One of us has to be the responsible adult this morning, and regrettably, I figure that task has fallen upon my shoulders. Me, who sometimes has to endure at least one more wake up call, which is really more of an <em>are you almost ready</em> interrogation due to that ridiculous habit of closing my eyes for ten more seconds then somehow losing over an hour.</p>
<p>But having last glared at the time as it ticked over to eight am, I figure I definitely would be playing with fire if I pulled that trick this morning. I’m not sure either of us would appreciate a lecture today, although you would likely not get much of a look in.</p>
<p>Generally, people assume it’s my fault when we’re late, an accusation that I both resent and grudgingly accept.</p>
<p>After making the herculean effort to get out of bed, I nevertheless find myself procrastinating for a few minutes. Glowering at my suitcase, hanging out in the bathroom after peeing to stare despondently at my own reflection in the mirror—habitual pastimes of a downtrodden singer, the type you don’t see mentioned in <em>Rolling Stone</em>. Oh yeah, the fun never stops when it comes to rock ‘n’ roll.</p>
<p>Finally, I drag my arse down the hallway to your room, wishing I were anywhere else, yet curious to see what state you’re in and wanting to see you, period.</p>
<p>There are few things I crave in life. Smokes, a serving of whiskey on a crappy night, the occasional Big Mac, to be with my three girls on days when we’re parted—that about sums it up, usually. And now you, as it turns out. You've worked your way onto that list to stay for good, love.</p>
<p>Thankfully, I’m yet to be hit with a shot of caffeine (another craving I neglected to consider, likely due to lacking it this morning) and don’t have the brainpower to grapple with the why’s of our existence together just yet. Or the state of my fractured soul, specifically the two sections that don't belong to me. Give me time. I’m sure another internalized crisis will take place later in the day.</p>
<p>But for now, I know only three things: I need you, I want coffee, and I look like old dog shit scraped off the bottom of a fucking boot.</p>
<p>You’re still alive, although it seems you’ve done the twist during the night, the sheet having been ripped out from beneath the mattress to cover barely a fifth of you, your pillow turned at a questionable angle. Numbly, I take in the line of skin exposed between your shirt and pants, then reach out and poke your shoulder.</p>
<p>“Edge.” Nothing. “Edge.” You start, but don’t wake, so this time I shove you, possibly a bit harder than necessary. It works, though. You wake up and I lose the sudden need to go punch a wall like a stunted man-child who is far too pent up with . . . something. Anger is generally a safe bet, yet not always accurate. “You alive?”</p>
<p>You groan in response but manage to open your eyes. For a moment we stare at each other blearily, then you groan once more and burrow your face into the pillow.</p>
<p>“Self-inflicted, Edge,” I remind you.</p>
<p>“Go <em>away</em>.”</p>
<p>“Love to, but Dublin’s phoning us home. Time to get that arse of yours moving.”</p>
<p>“Do you have to be so fucking loud?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” I answer in my inside voice, which funnily enough matches the only volume you’ve heard from me this morning. “You need to get out of bed, man. We have a big plane to catch.” Your only response is a predictable groan. “Come on, we’re supposed to be watered, fed and ready to roll by eleven or so. They’ll blame me if I’m late, they always do, you know.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, and why is that?”</p>
<p>Being a clever boy and all, I decide to ignore that comment. We could get very loud indeed if I crack and start biting back. I think you know this, even if you don’t have access to the full story brewing beneath my run-over-by-a-tank surface.</p>
<p>It’s not anguish or calm I’m experiencing. Anesthetized is more like it, if I have to label my current state. But I think it would be a bad idea for either of us to pick at the wound this morning.</p>
<p>You know how well and quickly that tripwire of mine can snap, especially when I’m a little slow and grouchy on account of being tired. And although it might be hard to tell when you’re being intimate with your pillow instead of looking my way, I am completely shattered right now.</p>
<p>“I’m going to have a shower,” I inform you, sounding like I’m a breath away from lecturing my daughter. “If I get out and find you still in this bed, I will be extremely disappointed, The Edge.”</p>
<p>You don’t respond, and I go and have my fucking shower. The beating heat of the water helps some, yet not enough for my liking. I emerge fifteen minutes or so later still feeling barely human. Sensibly, having already discovered the mirror to not be my friend this morning, I don’t wipe the fog away nor pick up a razor to conquer the stubble.</p>
<p>This will do today.<em> I</em> will do. With a towel wrapped around my waist, my hair a sodden nightmare and my face a disaster, lurching from room to room as though I’ve spent the past week doing little but falling off the stage.</p>
<p>It’s the perfect time to go ask <em>why don’t you want to fuck me, Edge? Who are you to resist this sexy half-grown package, you rational wanker? </em>(Although bollocksed you might have different ideas. Or not. At the very least, he may look at me like you did last night.) I could pull out that pose again, really put the final nail in the coffin. I could drag my own arse back into the hands of another internalized crisis. There’s a chance I already have.</p>
<p>You’re not in your room, or anywhere else in the suite. I’m both surprised and comforted by this. You may be useless this morning, but you’re still The Edge. Mr Responsible—mostly.</p>
<p>I don’t imagine what you’re doing as I set about readying myself for imminent departure. I definitely do not think about you in the shower, your elegant fingers running through your hair, rinsing the shampoo away. Or heading elsewhere on your body. And I refuse to lose even more time contemplating that look of yours, the way your eyes roamed my body last night and in San Francisco, and how you decided to kiss me. How you moaned into my mouth and attempted to undo my pants. </p>
<p>No, I am purely focused on the present. There are boots to be put on, teeth to brush, personal crap to be accounted for, and a suitcase to grapple with. A wife and two little girls waiting for me back home. To stop and picture you right now (or at any point in my life recently) would be like going skydiving without a parachute.</p>
<p>Somehow, I manage to get impeccably organized, even doing a sweep of the suite for anything facing potential abandonment—Gore Vidal’s <em>Hollywood</em> appearing to be the only true offender here. After organizing my shit to be palmed off, I make a second call, which very nearly goes unanswered.</p>
<p>“You alive?” I ask Adam when he picks up. My question of the day, it seems, likely for good reason. I don’t know what he got up to last night, but I have a very vivid imagination and outstanding memory for past unruliness.</p>
<p>“It appears so. However, I’m not sure about everyone else.”</p>
<p>“Edge is walking around and talking, although I’m not sure he should yet be classified as living.”</p>
<p>“I see.” Adam pauses, sighs, then asks, “Hungry?”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>“But are you ready?”</p>
<p>“Surprisingly,” I answer, “I am.”</p>
<p>We meet downstairs for breakfast, coffee being the most pressing matter on my mind, at least. No, that’s not quite true, though it’s up there. Right after Ali and you. Something sugary is not far behind. Chocolate, perhaps. Really, it’s unfair that my pockets only come with Twirl bars in my ridiculous dreams.</p>
<p>I’m lacking a spring in my step, yet Adam looks sprightly enough and has somehow managed to drag company along. To my endless displeasure, Larry remains looking like fucking Dorian Gray, the gobshite. Still, he is surly, but what else is new?</p>
<p>It’s a quiet affair, Larry opting for a lighter continental breakfast while Adam digs into some eggs and I cave and have pancakes with extra syrup. I think I’ve earned the right.</p>
<p>I’m on my second cup of coffee when you join us, looking worse for the wear and offering a grunted <em>morning</em> as you pour your own serving of necessary caffeine, then proceed to down half of it. Soon enough, you grumble, “Why the fuck did they schedule a flight so early?” Those elegant fingers reach out to steal a neglected muffin from Larry’s plate. “We could have left in the evening.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s the problem here,” I flatly say, despite partly agreeing with you. “Not that our old friend Belvedere tried to make an honest woman out of you last night before fucking you so hard you could barely walk afterward.”</p>
<p>You stare at me, your defenses slackened by a case of the brown bottle flu, although your lip quirks when Adam starts laughing. I myself cannot help but smile, while Larry stays out of it entirely, struck down by a nonspecific angst.</p>
<p>You’re looking at me, Edge. Even when you’re feeling like shite, you still can’t help yourself. It’s the brightest spot of an unfortunate morning, that gaze of yours. It’s what will keep me up at night, in more ways than one. If I end up sleeping on the couch, it will probably be because of you. You, and the turmoil you’ve created within me without doing a damn thing different to what you’ve always done.</p>
<p>“You look like crap,” you finally respond, still watching me as you sip your coffee.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” I reply, putting my hand to my heart like I’m touched. In a way, I am. There wasn’t a hint of malice in your voice. “You, on the other hand, look <em>divine</em>.”</p>
<p>We survive both breakfast and the journey to the airport without bloodshed or tears. This is partly, I imagine, because Larry doesn’t have the mindset to do anything but suck down water and put his head back, and I’m too focused on you and our destination instead of needling him. Perhaps hangovers and lovesick preoccupation should be written into our contract from now on? No, it's a bad idea. What is a band without some tension keeping its heartbeat strong? What is any relationship without that crucial pulse?</p>
<p>I leave Adam to deal with Larry when we board, deftly situating myself next to you. It’s a terrible idea, but I’m not sure I could choose any other seat right now. You’re quiet, still surly, yet the only company bar my missus that I currently am looking to keep.</p>
<p>I don’t want to think about her right now. I should. In a few hours I’ll be by her side once more, and I’ve no idea what to expect, how our first conversation will go. Whether she’ll let me lead it or take over.</p>
<p>She’ll have questions, some I can already predict, others I figure may completely blindside me. You and Ali are so alike, The Edge. You both can mystify me at times when I need some transparency to survive the moment without losing my fucking mind.</p>
<p>I don’t want to think about her. I may crumble entirely if I do. Watching you, I’m already halfway there.</p>
<p>“Just try not to vomit when we take off,” I tell you as we strap ourselves in for the journey, although your current troubles do seem more fatigue-based than queasiness. “I’m not sure I can handle a rerun of that so soon from you. As it is, I’ll be having flashbacks for weeks.”</p>
<p>You give me a withering look, then ask, “How many times have I had to direct <em>your</em> useless self toward the toilet over the years? Correct me if I’m wrong—although I’m not—but I’m fairly sure that number is far higher than the other way around.”</p>
<p>I don’t have an answer, because I don’t have a leg to stand on. Even when you’re so completely distanced from your personal best, you still manage to lay out the evidence and defeat me. Nevertheless, I can’t just sit here in silence when you’re staring me down like that, so I mutter something that sounds like a viable defense and don’t turn away when you finally offer me a smile, slight as it is.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you go to sleep, B?” you suggest. It’s sound advice, and once we’re in the air and you’re finally resembling a somewhat content human being, clutching a steaming cup of tea and in breathing distance, I follow your direction.</p>
<p>When I open my eyes next, I find you out for the count, your head listing my way. Drowsily, I take in the slope of your nose, that impressive forehead, your parted lips. The cabin is mostly quiet, and I’ve no idea what time it is, how far we’ve left to travel. It doesn’t matter. You look so serene. It’s a sight that’ll always affect me. Positively, negatively, sensually—or sometimes all at once.</p>
<p>I want to ask you again. I realized this, I think, at some point between putting you to bed and fitfully drifting off this morning (or maybe earlier). I’d be the biggest wanker, though, to even consider doing such a thing. But you looked at me last night. You bit your lip, you kissed me in San Fransisco, love. On the list of things that are currently fucking me up, they might just be at the very top.</p>
<p>If I told you what you’ve done, how would you react? Would it change your mind? Would you brush it off? Bring up Ali as if I've somehow forgotten? Remind me that drunk people do stupid crap which doesn’t count, nor isn’t truthful at all to how their sober minds operate? Would you comfort me after saying no for a second time? Or would you surprise me by giving a different response entirely? There are a million questions to consider and no immediate answers coming to mind.</p>
<p>You should tell me no more, but I wish you wouldn’t. And I’m not sure if I have it in me to keep this quiet. You know what I’m like—I can only go for so long before my mouth opens, often on its own accord, and the truth comes out.</p>
<p>I don’t know how long I can make it last.</p>
<p>Soon enough, I manage to tear myself away, first heading to the loo then ambling around for a while, stretching my legs and checking in on anyone that’ll listen. You’re still asleep when I return, yet you come alive when the food arrives.</p>
<p>Like a man partially reborn, you tear into your plate, stopping only to watch me pick at my meal. My appetite has left me, I can’t be arsed, and you’re slightly disturbed by this. Am I that much of a fat bastard? I’m not always hungry, Edge, and it’s not the end of the fucking world.</p>
<p>“You alright?”</p>
<p>“You want this?” I ask instead of answering, gesturing to my chicken. In return, you point at your own, a silent <em>I’ve clearly got enough on my plate, you blind eejit</em>. Your expression, however, suggests something different entirely.</p>
<p>You’ve been worried about me. Last night, I had no idea how to take this, but now . . . now, I’m starting to wonder whether it might be warranted.</p>
<p>“I’m fine, Edge,” I say when you keep on staring into my soul. It’s enough to make you smile, to force your attention back toward your food, yet I can’t shake the feeling that you’re not buying it when I tell you such things these days. “I could do with a drink, though.”</p>
<p>“Count me out,” you mutter, as clever as always.</p>
<p>Despite being struck down with a sudden and intense need for whiskey, I wisely settle for tea once our plates have been cleared. You pull out a book, which stays closed in your lap as you drum your fingers on your knee, first staring straight ahead then glancing my way. “Was I a complete wanker last night?”</p>
<p>“No,” I reply after a tentative beat. This is not really a conversation I want to have right now. “It’s genuinely an experience dealing with you, The Edge himself, being utterly ridiculous. You know I’m always down for witnessing you walking into walls.”</p>
<p>“Did I walk into a wall?”</p>
<p>“You don’t remember?” I half-heartedly joke, causing you to smile and shake your head.</p>
<p>“I remember drinking with Willie and Larry, and then you being very annoying this morning and not letting me sleep. That’s about it.”</p>
<p><em>Good</em>, I think, but say, “That’s a pity. You were quite the entertainment. I think even you would have been amused.”</p>
<p>Going by your expression, you’re not entirely convinced by this. Which is fair. Amused is not exactly the word I would use for last night.</p>
<p>“Maybe,” you respond after a thoughtful pause, then glance down at your novel. It happens too quickly, this lack of attention from you, and I’m not prepared. I need at least a few minutes more of you looking at me. It seems I really am that desperate.</p>
<p>“I had a dream about you last night,” I start, and it works like a charm, your book instantly forgotten. “About the four of us, actually. I’m pretty sure we were in Oz.”</p>
<p>“Oz as in—”</p>
<p>“As in Wizard of, yes.”</p>
<p>You nod, not at all surprised to hear this. Whether that’s a testament to the general phenomenon that is dreaming or my tendency to inform you of the wonderful ways in which my brain remains creative while I sleep, I can’t be sure. “Go on.”</p>
<p>“We were on our way home, I think, but managed to get side-tracked, as is our way.”</p>
<p>“That does sound right for us,” you agree with a chuckle that hits right where it’s needed. “Were we ourselves, or . . .”</p>
<p>“Yes and no. I mean, we looked and acted like us, yet there was something, The Edge, something different about all of our characters. Larry fit the part of Tin Man, unsurprisingly—”</p>
<p>“Settle.”</p>
<p>“—while Adam could have been either The Scarecrow or Toto, I’m not actually sure. I have a strange feeling it was the latter, however.”</p>
<p>“Did he bark like a dog?”</p>
<p>“No, he talked like Adam. A perfect gentleman, but with a dog-like aura, I suppose.”</p>
<p>It does the trick. You let out a full-bodied laugh this time, your eyes impossibly warm as you look my way. “I thought I was the mad dog?”</p>
<p>“Aren’t we all?”</p>
<p>Ever the diplomat, you neither agree nor disagree with this, instead reaching out to pat me on the knee. I wish you wouldn’t, I want your hand to stay right there for at least five minutes. More. Long enough for me to work up a touch of courage and do something. Ask you again, skip talking entirely and shift your hand up my thigh, wrap my fingers around your wrist and return your arm to your lap—there are too many options to consider.</p>
<p>You draw your hand away before I can think about it for too long, although I am still acutely aware of your elegant fingers resting against your own thigh. I don’t think I’m the strong motherfucker you imagine me to be. I definitely don’t think I can last, Edge.</p>
<p>“And you were?” you ask, looking like you already know the answer.</p>
<p>“I’m almost certain I was the fucking Lion.”</p>
<p>Mostly, you manage to hide your surprise. Your eyebrows do go up, yet your voice remains entirely unaffected. “Does that make me Dorothy then?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” I reply with a shrug that aims for nonchalance and almost succeeds. “I think it does.”</p>
<p>“Fantastic,” you deadpan. “Thank you for sharing this with me, B.”</p>
<p>“You’re not at all excited about being the leader of our little group?”</p>
<p>“It is nice for you to finally recognize the truth, but I’m still fucking Dorothy in this scenario.”</p>
<p>“You weren’t in a dress.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s something.”</p>
<p>“I thought you didn’t mind wearing a dress.”</p>
<p>You sigh, giving me a look. “I don’t really feel like getting into that right now, Bono.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” I respond, then immediately give in to temptation. “You know what this means, though, don’t you?” I can’t help myself; I need to see your reaction to what I’m about to say. I must be a masochist. “It means you were in control, Edge.”</p>
<p>It shouldn’t come as a surprise to hear, given that’s theoretically what leading a group means. But there’s often a big difference between being a leader and having control, especially in my mind recently.</p>
<p>You react with vague interest—an apparent death sentence to my wobbly state of mind—then offer a sly grin. “Was I really in control, or did you say I was then try and take over?”</p>
<p>I don’t remember, but that doesn’t stop me from replying, “You were in complete control, and I had no qualms with this. None whatsoever.”</p>
<p>“That’s how you know it’s a dream.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” I concede, then add, “Perhaps not.”</p>
<p>You blink at me, not quite baffled enough to request an expansion on whatever is bouncing around in that thick head of mine. Which is probably for the best. Even if you did ask, I’m not sure I’d be able to answer right now, not how I want to. Maybe I really am a coward when it comes to you, although that’s never stopped the words from tumbling out of my mouth at any given moment.</p>
<p>“Whatever you say, B,” you muse, turning once more to your book. This time, I let you read, sipping my cooling tea as I glance around the cabin.</p>
<p>I could get up and bug someone else. We still have a few hours left and talking has proven to be a wonderful time-waster in the past. I <em>should</em> get up. Check in with Paul, give Larry some shit for being such a bad influence last night, flirt with whichever lovely lady will have me. Find a distraction to busy my mind. But I don’t. The thought of leaving your side right now, even when your attention is elsewhere, is crushing. So I stay right where I am, curling up in my chair to watch you in a manner that is hopefully not too obvious.</p>
<p>I should be thinking about Ali, but I’m not. I can’t right now. I may begin to actually shake if I do. However, I shouldn’t be thinking about you either, not when I’m mere hours away from walking through my blue door in Killiney. But here we are. You, engrossed in your book, and me, silently wishing you would turn your head and offer a comforting smile.</p>
<p>There is no way in hell I’m going to be able to push this aside. To ignore the burning desperation that has been building and fucking <em>building</em>, heading for its peak. To stop wanting this, wanting you.</p>
<p>It’s right to doubt my ability in handling this without letting the cracks appear. Who knows? Maybe they’re already there for everyone to see. Perhaps you’ve already started to wonder. After all, you know me so damn well, don’t you, The Edge? Somehow, though, I imagine there are a few things about me that continue to elude even you.</p>
<p>Look at you, frowning at whatever DeLillo has to say for himself, blinking like you’re still in recovery from your efforts last night, no matter how improved you appear on the surface. Ignorance is a blessing sometimes, it truly is. I doubt you know how hard you’ve fucked me, love, or that you’ve managed to do it by simply being yourself.</p>
<p>“What?” you ask suddenly, taking me by surprise.</p>
<p>I shrug, but I’m not embarrassed to be caught staring. It eventually got you to glance my way, after all. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”</p>
<p>Nodding, you smile at me as if you understand completely. “It’ll be good to have a break. Get away from the madness and spend some time with family. And, I suppose, our thoughts, without all that interference.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” I say, if only to make that smile of yours last a little longer. “I can’t wait.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>